Wolf and Man
by gaelicspirit
Summary: A bad moon rises over the Winchesters when a stop for coffee and a meal turns into a hunt that threatens both of the brother's lives. Cowritten by Freyja529 and Gaelicspirit.
1. It's later than you realize

**Wolf and Man**

**Disclaimer: **We don't claim them, and are eternally grateful to the Kripke for creating them.

**Spoilers:** This is set during Season 2, directly after _Children Shouldn't Play with Dead Things_. Anything before that is fair game.

a/n: This story is co-written by **Freyja529 **and **Gaelicspirit**. We hope you enjoy. Many thanks to Kelly for the beta. Story title and chapter excerpts are from the Metallica song "Of Wolf and Man."

_Bright is the moon high in starlight,_

_chill is the air cold as steel tonight._

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It's later than you realized

"Whoah...we're halfway thay-er! Whoa-oh...livin' on a pray-er!" The driver of the lone vehicle traversing the dark stretch of back road thumped her hand on the steering wheel. Caffeine coursed through her veins, fueling her solitary road trip. Her eyes flicked to the side of the road as she sang, taking in the green sign that read _Asheville, 15 miles_.

"Take my hand and we'll make it I sway-er..." The girl grew silent as the car suddenly shuddered and stalled. She swore as her view shifted to the gas gauge. The red E seemed to mock her. "Goddammit...you have _got_ to be kidding me," she muttered, cursing herself for allowing this to happen.

She tried in vain to will the car back to life, turning the key in the ignition and pressing her foot repeatedly on the gas pedal in an ineffectual gesture of frustration. Slamming her hands on the dashboard she felt a brief moment of panic, then relief washed over her as she reached into the purse on her passenger seat. Just _call for help, dumbass. Isn't that why you got Triple A?_ She held her cellular lifeline in front of her in disbelief. _No service? Great...just great. What the hell do I do now?_

She couldn't just sit there, that much she knew. She hadn't seen another car for at least a half hour and she knew the likelihood of someone coming along this time of night was slim to none. Besides, she wasn't one for sitting still even in the best of circumstances. She exited the car and slammed the door behind her.

Surveying her surroundings, the girl took in the dense forest on either side of the road. She paced around her vehicle, silently calculating how long it would take to walk the fifteen miles to Asheville. She glanced down at the wedge sandals on her feet and rubbed her hands along the gooseflesh rising on her arms. Shivering, she peered into the darkness.

_Was that a light?_ She squinted and peered into the gloom. A light glimmered from somewhere within the dense forest. The girl's sense of hopelessness began to lift at the thought of help nearby.

Seeing no side roads leading toward the light, the girl scanned the trees and discovered an opening she hadn't first noticed. A narrow path parted the brush and she hesitated only briefly before stepping onto it and entering the forest, hope sanding the rough edges of apprehension.

The girl wrapped her arms tightly around her chest, warming herself against the chill night air. Smoky purple clouds slithered across the face of a full moon overhead. The wind whispered dark secrets through the barren tree branches that stretched out on either side of the path, and the girl quickened her pace. She thought briefly of turning back but the light beckoned her onward.

The sound of her own footsteps sounded in her ears. In the distance an owl hooted a mournful call. From somewhere deep in her memory, the girl found the words from a children's song running through her mind. _If you go out in the woods today you'd better not go alone. It's lovely out in the woods today but safer to stay at home_...

She shuddered and glanced behind her, her heartbeat accelerating, her breath coming faster. The light seemed to be getting closer now and she forced herself to keep moving forward, despite the gnawing sense of foreboding that raised the tiny hairs on the back of her neck.

Suddenly something rustled the bushes to her left and she felt hot fear prickle the skin on her forehead. Her pulse sounded like a drumbeat in her ears and she began to wonder if leaving the road had been such a good idea. Her hand snaked into the pocket of her jeans and gripped her car keys like a weapon.

Something darted across the dirt path before her and she stifled a scream, chastising herself as a rabbit turned to regard her with frightened eyes. She relaxed her grip on the keys and drew a deep breath, chuckling at her own paranoia. _Easy, girl. Just a bunny. Your imagination's getting the best of you._

The rabbit darted into the brush and the girl continued toward the light, shaking her head at what too many nights spent watching horror movies had done to her. A few more steps down the path she stilled as an eerie sound shattered the silence. It sounded like a child's cry, a baby screaming. Her breath came in shallow bursts and she felt her stomach cramp at the thought of someone--or something--behind her in the woods. Something bigger and stronger... something that could bite and claw... Being raised in the country allowed the girl to recognize it as the cry of a rabbit caught by a predator, but for a moment, she couldn't think beyond the skin-crawling sound.

The screaming finally stopped, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. _Rabbit probably just got caught by a fox or a coyote_, she told herself, though the cold stab of fear she felt in her gut contradicted her.

A twig snapped several feet behind her as a large cloud shifted to block the moon's glow. In a primeval corner of the girl's brain a realization began to dawn. She fought to squelch the panic rising in her throat like bile. Darkness seemed to wrap itself around her in a suffocating blanket of terror and she abandoned all rational thought and began to run.

She could now see that the light she'd sought was in fact coming from a dilapidated farmhouse settled in a clearing up ahead. The muscles in her legs burned with exertion. Stumbling on a root, she faltered momentarily, listening to the approaching footsteps behind her, smelling something rank and cloying, hearing muffled grunts and what sounded like... panting. She couldn't stop herself from glancing back.

The strangled sound that escaped from her throat might have been a scream. It might have risen on the night air and betrayed the horror that lurked in the quiet forest. It might have reached the house up ahead and alerted anyone inside that something was terribly wrong. It might have been a cry for help if her throat had not been torn out before it had a chance to escape.

The last thing she was aware of was a pair of sickly yellow eyes, a flash of teeth and claws, and the sound of ripping flesh as her life drained from her in a crimson flow.

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The Impala hummed down the blacktop, the white dashes that divided the road disappearing as the tires ate up mile after mile. Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as strains of Black Sabbath's _Paranoid_ filled the heavy silence within.

Sam looked toward the radio, listening.

"_I need someone to show me the things in life that I can't find; I can't see the things that make true happiness, I must be blind..."_

He shook his head at the subtle irony. After spending the past week without a game plan, they were simply putting distance between themselves and Kansas, between the weighted quiet of the past few days and the conversation by the side of the road that had opened a Pandora's Box of emotion.

Sam regarded his brother from the corner of his eye, taking in the lines of worry that creased Dean's brow, the shadows that gathered beneath his eyes, the rigid set of his jaw. He'd meant what he said in Lawrence. Lately Dean had been downright reckless, self-destructive even, and it scared the hell out of him to see his brother on a downward spiral he had no idea how to stop.

Sam still felt the pain of losing their father. He woke every day to the realization that he was now an orphan. He knew that the often turbulent relationship he'd had with his dad would forever haunt him, that he would spend the rest of his life wishing for one more moment, one more day, one more chance.

But Dean... Dean carried a weight greater than loss, greater than regret. Sam had watched it build with each passing day, pressing down on him. The only thing Sam had seen relieve the weight had been the Impala - repairing it, driving it. Even hunting wasn't enough to work out the slow burn of rage Sam could feel rolling off of his brother. _Dad's dead because of me..._ Sam knew that what Dean suspected was, in fact, probably not far from the truth. And that terrible knowledge was slowly consuming Dean from the inside out.

_So tell me...what could you possibly say to make that alright?_ The question had pierced Sam like a dagger. What response _could_ he have given that would have granted Dean some measure of comfort, would have made it alright? It ate at Sam - knowing that he had been helpless when faced with his brother's raw emotion. Dean normally betrayed nothing of what was actually going on inside; his honesty left Sam feeling hollow, helpless.

_Careful what you wish for_, Sam thought. He'd given Dean one week... _one week_ after they burned their father on a pyre of memories before he started pushing Dean to open up, to admit to his pain, to talk with Sam about how Dad's death made him feel. He pushed each day, slowly driving Dean to a breaking point, hoping that, like him, Dean would heal through words. And then, when Dean had finally responded, Sam had been speechless.

Turning toward the window, Sam absently picked at the edge of his newly acquired cast. He chided himself for allowing the silence of the past few days to continue. There had been so many times he had wanted to tell Dean that he understood, that it hadn't been Dean's choice, that it wasn't his fault. But words seemed futile now.

Instead he let the music soothe his brother. He knew that the guitar riffs and drum beats were like a balm on Dean's wounded spirit. Dean could lose himself in the noise and lyrics and find solace in the familiar rhythms. Sometimes the only thing that seemed to make sense to his brother anymore was music - it kept the demons away.

Communication between them had become compulsory. _Gotta' fill up. You want anything? Pull over up here...gotta' take a leak. _Staccato beats of sound forced into existence out of necessity.

Dean's voice broke Sam's reverie. "Dude, I need some coffee. You feel like stoppin'?"

"Yeah, sure."

Sam stretched his impossibly long legs and shifted his neck from side to side. Dean turned into the parking lot of a roadside diner just as the sun began to tinge the edges of the surrounding trees the deep red-gold of evening. A few moments rest might do them some good.

Dean slid into the cracked vinyl booth and tapped his hand impatiently on the table, his silver ring clinking against the Formica. Sam had gone to find a restroom and Dean found himself with the unfortunate companion of his thoughts. Sam had no way of knowing, but Dean heard too much when he was alone, heard things too loudly - things like his father's voice, his father's command, his father's pride. Things that were too heavy to carry by himself, but that he couldn't afford to share with Sam.

He craned his neck and tried to catch the eye of a waitress with bottled-blonde hair who was leaning against the counter next to a couple of gray-haired men in coveralls. _Coffee... C'mon, sweetheart, that's all I need... black, hot, and plenty of it..._ He stopped short of waving a hand when he saw the expression on the waitress's face. Morbid fascination mixed there with just enough pleasure that Dean was intrigued. Leaning back casually in his seat, he cocked an ear towards the conversation taking place a few feet away.

Blondie was shaking her head, her fuchsia lips pursed together in an expression of distaste. She leaned forward, her breasts looking as if they were ready to make an escape from the tight red shirt with the diner's logo stitched provocatively across her chest, and spoke in a stage whisper, her expression horrified, her tone delighted at sharing such a gruesome bit of gossip.

"D'ya hear they found another one? Same deal...girl was torn up somethin' awful. Looked like a pack of wild dogs got her."

One man shook his head slowly and clucked in mock sympathy, licking his lips, eager for the gory details. "You don't say? Where'd they find this one?"

"Sheriff Rawlings was in earlier and he said it was only 'bout a quarter mile from the last one." She paused for dramatic effect, put a hand tipped with hot pink talons to her breast and looked from side to side before continuing.

Dean pretended to check the clock on the wall behind her as she spoke, a smug expression on her face. "He also said her heart was missin'. Just like the last girl. Do ya'll realize that's six dead in three months? I tell ya', I watch enough CSI to know that we are dealing with a serial killer. Right here in Asheville."

Dean looked down, thinking. _Serial werewolf is more like it..._ He'd been on a few werewolf hunts with his dad when he was a kid, and then again when Sam first left for Stanford. Mutilated body, missing heart, same area... the pattern fit. Still listening, Dean glanced out of the window to the left of the booth where he sat waiting for Sam. If he thought about it for too long, the speed with which his brain could solve the formula of death to a supernatural end might scare him.

"Aw, hell, Myrna," the second man said skeptically, "It's prob'ly a cougar. You hear 'bout them attackin' joggers and such. Somebody just needs to take a rifle up there and shoot the damn cat."

The first man was quiet. After a moment he asked, "They found both those girls this month up by Will Randall's place, didn't they?"

Myrna shrugged. "Yeah, guess so. Why?"

"Dunno. There's just somethin'... somethin's not been right about him since his son took off. You ask me, that guy's got a screw loose."

"Can't blame a man for takin' it hard when his only son up and disappears without so much as a howdy-do."

"'Spose you're right, Myrna." The man glanced at the clock and nudged his companion. "Earl, we best be gettin' back."

The waitress said her goodbyes to the two older patrons and began wiping down the counter without glancing in Dean's direction. Dean spotted Sam striding towards the table, a newspaper rolled up in his hand and a grim expression on his face.

Dean raised an eyebrow at the newspaper. "Dude, you weren't in there that long."

Sam screwed his face up and dismissed his brother's comment as he folded his lanky frame into the booth. "Very funny. Listen to this..." Unfurling the paper he read a headline aloud. "_Second Victim Found Dead in Woods; Police Suspect Wild Animal Attack_."

He looked up expectantly. "This article goes on to say that the victim, a young woman, was found mauled to death. With her heart missing," he added pointedly.

Dean lifted his shoulders and held his palms up. "And?"

He forced himself not to grin at Sam's earnest expression. Sam shook his head and leaned forward, his voice lowered.

"Dean, this is our kind of weird, man. Animal attacks where the victims' hearts are removed? Come on, Dean! Do you seriously not see this?"

Dean pouted his lower lip and tried to look genuinely confused. "See what, Sam? That this town has an animal control problem?" He could feel the frustration emanating from his brother.

_It's just...stumbling onto a hunt...here...of all places... Look, maybe you're imagining a hunt where there isn't one so you don't have to think about Mom or Dad... Just working my imaginary case..._

Sam might be frustrated now, but as far as Dean was concerned, his little brother had some catching up to do in that department. He was not about to make this a slam-dunk sale on a hunt, regardless of how real it felt.

"Dean, I think we need to stick around and check this out. I'm telling you...this is more than a wild animal attack."

Sam slapped his hand on the table for emphasis just as the waitress stepped up to take their order. He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, giving her a halfhearted smile. "Two coffees, please."

"Anything else?" she asked, shifting her gaze to Dean.

Dean gave her a wink and said, "I guess I'd better try some of that homemade pie..." He glanced down at the name tag fixed to the left side of her red, low-cut shirt and back up to meet her eyes. "...Myrna."

Blushing, she gave him a smile in return and tucked a wayward platinum strand of hair behind her ear. "Sure thing, Sugar. Be right back with that."

Dean flattened his lips as Myrna sashayed away. Sam was staring holes into him, willing Dean to see what he saw. He thought he could wait his brother out, string along the torture a bit longer, but the weeks without a hunt had worn him down. The second Mynra was out of ear-shot, Dean's face broke into a wide grin.

"Had you goin' there, huh, Sammy?"

Sam's brow knitted together. "Had me going where?"

"Myrna there," Dean tipped his head toward the counter, not taking his eyes from Sam, "just talked with Sheriff Rawlings. Guess your newspaper victim," Dean tapped his index finger on the print, "is number six. In the last three months."

As he talked he saw understanding dawn in Sam's eyes.

"Wait, so you knew? I'm goin' on about these attacks... and you already knew?"

"Yup."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Neither brother stopped to acknowledge how good it felt to banter, to have a conversation that wasn't heavy with sorrow or underlying pain. For a moment, they were simply brothers, getting ready to do what they knew, what they'd been taught, what was in their blood: hunting evil.

Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean, tipping his chin as he checked in. "So you're up for this?"

Dean looked offended. "Hell, yeah, I'm up for this. Something's out there killing people. And it's pretty obvious that it's no cougar... if we don't stop it, who will?"

"So, it's on?"

Dean's lips curled in to a semi-maniacal smile. "It's on, man."

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"Dude, one of these days we're gonna find us a place where the sheets don't smell like cigarettes."

Sam lifted an eyebrow at Dean's grumble, watching as his brother pulled his face into a frown and dropped the second duffel onto the bed, releasing a waft of rather unpleasant scents. Motels were simply a stopping place on their journey for Sam; he never put much thought into it. In the back of his mind, he'd kept hold of the belief that motels were always temporary. He wouldn't be living his life in motels; he was going to have a real house one day. A place to call home, a place to go to when the work day was done.

Or so he'd once thought.

Until the Demon had taken Jessica from him, possessed his father, destroyed walls twenty-three years in the making around his brother's fragile heart, and turned his own life inside out. He pulled out his laptop, setting it on the small table in the corner of the motel room. Shifting his jacket off over the cast on his right hand, he sat down, preparing to look into the possibilities... wendigo, wampus cat, black dog... maybe even werewolf.

He shot a curious glance in Dean's direction, noting that his brother didn't immediately assume the position: back against headboard, remote in hand, shoes toed off and sitting next to the bed for easy access.

"Dude... what the hell are you doing?" Sam asked.

Dean hadn't removed his jacket and was busy filling a clip of his .45 with what appeared to be silver bullets.

"What's it look like I'm doing?"

"Looks like you're jumping to a conclusion, that's what," Sam said, turning in his chair and resting a hand on his knee. "We haven't even figured out what we're dealing with yet."

Dean tossed a glance at him without moving his head. "Werewolf, Sammy."

"What? How do you know that?" Sam pulled his head back with the question.

Dean turned to face him, arms out, empty .45 resting loosely in his right grip. "I know because I know, Sam."

Sam lifted an eyebrow and stood, approaching the foot of the bed with caution. "I'm gonna need more than that."

Dean dropped his hands to his sides and Sam saw his jaw set, a muscle in his cheek bouncing. "You want to play it that way?"

Sam pulled his head back, confused. "What?"

"You're the one that called this hunt, Sam. You can't claim it's make-believe this time."

"What are you talking about, man?"

"I was right about the zombie. I'm right about this." Dean pointed to the ground with the barrel of the gun, emphasizing his point.

Sam swallowed. _Oh_. "Dean, I didn't mean-"

Dean turned from Sam and shoved the newly-filled clip into the gun with more force than was necessary. "Six mutilations in the last three months? Hearts missing? All in the same area?"

Sam got it. Dean was pissed.

"Doesn't get much more obvious than that."

"Could be a wendigo..." Sam hedged.

Dean gave him a look, filling a second clip with silver bullets. "C'mon, Sam, you're smarter than that. First of all, wrong area of the country. Second, a wendigo would take its kill back and chew on it awhile." He shivered. "Believe me."

"Black dog?" Sam offered, knowing it was weak, knowing the only reason he was offering up alternatives was because he was afraid that Dean was right: they were going to have to face a werewolf.

"Fine, okay," Sam sighed, shoving his left hand through his hair when Dean didn't even bother to comment on his last suggestion. "So, if you're right, we need to think this through a sec."

Dean picked up Sam's Glock. "Why?"

_Because I think you're trying to prove something and I'm not sure I like what it is..._

"Because we need to be prepared, that's why."

Dean's actions, expressions, even the way he was breathing told Sam that he was on his own mission, and Sam felt the knot of worry that had been building at the base of his neck since they left Lawrence begin to tighten once more. _I was dead... and I shoulda stayed dead..._

Dean picked up a spare clip, shoved it into the base of the Glock, checked the safety, and handed it to Sam. "I'm prepared."

Sam sighed, but took the gun from his brother's outstretched hand. He put the gun between his waistband and his T-shirt at the small of his back.

"Dean, listen, I think we need to-"

"Sam," Dean leveled his eyes on Sam's, tucking his .45 into his waistband and sliding the spare clip into his back pocket. "What's with you? You couldn't wait to jump on this hunt."

Sam swallowed. "I know, it's just that..." He watched Dean slide a silver flask into his other back pocket. "It's like, what? Seven, eight at night? Let's think this through, research, y'know, figure out what we're dealing with."

Dean shook his head and turned toward the door. "Last night of the lunar cycle, Sammy. It's now or never."

Sam grabbed his jacket when it didn't appear Dean was going to turn back.

"Besides," Dean continued as he jerked the door open. "We know what we're dealing with. Tap on your keyboard all you want, Geekboy. It's still gonna be a wolf."

"Wait! Where the hell-"

"Hunting grounds, Sammy," Dean called over his shoulder, stepping out into the night.

"Goddamn stubborn..." Sam muttered to himself. He grabbed John's journal and followed Dean out of the motel room. Dean had already started the car when Sam slid into the passenger seat. "S'pose you know exactly where you're going, too."

Dean lifted a shoulder. "Sure."

Sam pouted, shifting his right arm so that his cast was resting on his knee, and turned his head to face Dean's profile with a disbelieving glance. "How?"

Dean poked a finger down on the folded newspaper resting on the bench seat between them. "It's more than just bathroom entertainment, man."

Sam frowned, picking up the paper and scanning the article he'd read earlier. His eyes caught on the tidbit of information that he'd missed earlier. "Huh. Highway 193."

Dean nodded, hooking his elbow over the back of the seat and craning his head over his shoulder to watch behind him as he backed out of the parking spot. The sun had set, but the gray light of evening still held sway over the earth, and Sam watched as Dean squinted to see behind him in the gloom.

"This guy... Will Randall, he's got a farm about 15 miles outside of town," Dean said, rotating the wheel with the flat of his hand and pulling the gear down into drive.

"When did you-"

"I looked on the map when you were checking us in," Dean lifted an eyebrow and glanced over at Sam.

Sam twisted back around front, and sighed. "Fine. If you're sure..."

Dean nodded, his jaw set. "I'm sure."

Sam picked up their dad's journal, thumbing through it until he got to part of the nearly illegible scrawl where John had noted most of the information on werewolves. _Dean was right, Dad writes -wrote- like friggin' Yoda..._

"So, if I'm reading this right," Sam said as Dean stopped at a light on the way out of town. He flicked his eyes up briefly as Dean switched on the overhead dome light, then back down to the journal. "It looks like Dad thought there were like... three different breeds of werewolf."

The fingers of his right hand curled around the top of the journal, Sam followed the line of text with the index finger of his left hand.

"There's the kind that's actually mostly human in form, but just as blood-thirsty, then there's the kind that's like... _wolf _wolf... and the kind that's like a... a monster."

Sam couldn't keep the sudden nervous tremor from his voice. John's journal had rough, amateurish sketches of each breed. The monster version was the stuff of childhood nightmares. In fact... he remembered...

"Hey, Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Did Dad ever... ever fight one of the monster ones?"

When Dean stayed silent, Sam looked over at his brother. The dome light threw odd shadows across the planes of Dean's face, casting light onto the clenched muscle in his jaw that was always a sure sigh of tension.

"Yeah," Dean finally answered. "Yeah...once or twice."

Sam looked forward, his hands still poised over the open book. "I remember this... this dream I had when I was a kid," he blinked, looking down with unseeing eyes at the only physical reminder - aside from him and Dean - that John Winchester had made a mark on the world. "There was a... creature. Huge, big as Dad... with these like... grotesque muscles over its shoulders and back... and yellow eyes." He spoke hesitantly, his eyes narrowed in concentration, working to pull the details from his foggy memory. "In my dream it attacked Dad... and, uh, you were there."

The car was quiet for a moment, then, "It wasn't a dream."

The words were spoken so softly that for a moment Sam thought he imagined them. He looked over at Dean.

"What was that?"

Dean cleared his throat and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his silver ring clicking on the metal. "I said it wasn't a dream," his voice was slightly raspy from memory.

Sam swallowed. He didn't know if he wanted to hear this. "What are you talking about, Dean?"

Dean licked his lips and shifted his eyes out of the side window. Sam watched him. The gray gloom was darkening to night and it seemed to wrap around the Impala, seep through the windows, and rest with cold dread on Sam's heart.

"You were about... seven? I think," Dean began, his eyes back on the road, but darting, not ready to rest on any one thing.

Sam stayed quiet, waiting for Dean to continue. He made sure to keep still, ignoring the odd twist in his back, the nagging itch under his cast, the little voice in his head that was whispering to him... _too far... don't push him too far..._

"Dad had been gone for a coupla days and I knew something was wrong."

"How?"

Dean tipped his head. "I don't know... I just knew. I mean, he could be gone for days at a time, but this one time... this time something was off. I almost called someone to help me go get him."

Sam looked forward, watching for the highway mileage sign the newspaper had said the last victim had stopped just beyond. "Call who?"

Dean pressed his lips together and lifted a shoulder. "Y'know, the usual. Caleb, Pastor Jim, Bobby..."

"But you didn't?"

Dean shook his head. "I knew he woulda been pissed, so..." He shifted slightly in his seat and the roll of his voice betrayed how uncomfortable he was telling Sam about this hunt. "I, uh... I took you with me to go after him-"

"Dude, you were, what? Eleven?"

"Yeah. So?"

"How did you-"

"Walked, Sam. We walked. I kept you close; we slept for a bit in a bus station... It was the last night of the lunar cycle, and I knew what he was hunting, and where. I was just afraid..."

"That it had already got him?"

"Something like that."

Sam shook his head. He wondered how often his brother had let himself be a kid when they were growing up. At eleven, Dean had been aware of lunar cycles.

"Anyway," Dean said on a tired-sounding exhale. "When I found the car, Dad wasn't there. I had to pick the lock of the trunk and get a spare gun, then I hid you in the back seat. I heard the werewolf... Dad was running toward the car, it was following him... friggin' thing was huge..."

"And it smelled," Sam said suddenly.

Dean looked over at him. "You remember that?"

"Yeah, I... I thought I was making it up, but it smelled like... I don't know... like..."

"Like rotting fruit."

"Yeah. Totally rank."

"Well, Dad saw me standing there and I swear, man... in that moment I wanted the wolf to get me. He was so pissed."

"What happened?" Sam asked when Dean paused.

Dean took a breath and rolled his bottom lip in against his teeth. "The werewolf got distracted by me, Dad turned around and shot it - emptied a clip into it before it finally fell back. Then it turned."

"Turned?"

"Back to a human. It was this young kid - some teenager." Dean shook his head. "Dad burned the body... made me watch. Told me that I needed to know that it wasn't over when the bad thing wasn't chasing you anymore. There was always one more step... You stayed in the car the whole time."

Sam rubbed his face. "I can't believe that was actually... real."

"Believe it," Dean said, then nodded off to the side of the road. "There's the sign."

Sam dropped his hand. "'K, well, she pulled over not too far from here, then."

"What else does the journal say?"

"Huh? Oh," Sam looked back down. "Well... all breeds apparently crave a steady diet of human hearts... uh... only a bite can turn you... guess the mutative gene is in the saliva... so we can get clawed to death and not wolf out," Sam drew his lips down in a mock-frown. "Good to know."

"Say anything about killing it?"

"Just what you already know," Sam said looking up as Dean pulled over near a barely-visible path through the woods that flanked the sides of the road.

"Silver bullet to the heart," they intoned in unison.

"Oh, there's something else here," Sam squinted at the tiny print in the margins of the werewolf page in the journal. "Guess the monster ones can, like... turn at will? That's just great."

"Well," Dean shut off the car. "That oughta keep things interesting."

Dean climbed out of the car and shrugged out of his jacket. Opening the back door, he tossed the leather jacket across the seat and grabbed the box of fake IDs off the floor of the car where he'd tossed it after they had met up with Neal in Lawrence. _Grief counselors didn't need IDs...what would an old farmer like Will Randall buy... who would he talk to..._

"You're gonna get cold," Sam said, laying an arm across the seat and looking at Dean over his shoulder.

"While I appreciate your concern, Sammy," Dean said, not looking at him as he rifled through the box. "A leather jacket doesn't exactly scream 'trust me'." He pulled out two badges. "And if we're gonna find out anything from this dude, we gotta get him to talk to us, right?"

Sam nodded, looking at the badges. "That one," he said, pointing to the press pass they'd made in Red Lodge when passing as reporters for _Weekly World News_.

Dean turned the press pass around in his hand, then grinned. "Good choice," he said, tossing one to Sam, who caught it awkwardly with his left hand. Dean backed out of the car and headed to the trunk.

Sam shoved the journal in the glove box and joined Dean outside of the car. "Don't suppose it occurred to you that going into a werewolf's hunting grounds, in the dark, on the last night of the lunar cycle isn't the best of all possible plans..."

Dean grinned at him, handing him a flashlight. "What are you talking about? It's the perfect plan."

"Perfect for getting us killed," Sam grumbled, following Dean down the embankment and onto the small, worn path. The trees were large and many of them were covered in Spanish moss, giving Sam the sensation that they were walking into some sort of Tolkien-like realm.

Dean shot a glance over his shoulder. "Lighten up, Sammy. You're way too tense."

"Tense this," Sam grumbled, holding up a finger at his brother's back.

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"Dude," Dean muttered as they breeched the woods and entered the clearing on the edge of the farm. "First you let a zombie chick break your hand, and now you can't use your flashlight?"

Sam stumbled, tripping on a branch for the third time, and turned to glare at the offending piece of forest debris. "Not my fault. How was I supposed to know the batteries were dead?"

Dean stopped and looked over at him, the beam from his own flashlight on the ground, unconsciously leading Sam out of the woods and into a clear path. "You check them, that's how you know."

Sam stepped up next to him, shoving the useless flashlight into his jacket pocket. "You're the one that wanted to go hunt monsters in the dark._ I_ said to wait until morning, but no..."

"Not monsters...wolf, man."

"Wolfman?"

"No, not - forget it," Dean waved a dismissive hand at him. "You're hopeless."

Sam followed him as Dean approached the farmhouse. "Hopeless? We just trekked through a quarter mile of forest, at night, through werewolf hunting grounds heading to a farm house that looks like it's straight out of _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_, probably walking right over the place the last girl was killed to get here... and after all that you're giving me grief about friggin' flashlight batteries..."

Dean paused just before climbing the steps. "You done?"

Sam sighed. "Yeah."

"Good," Dean raised his hand to knock on the doorframe around the screen door. He got three raps in when the light on the porch flicked on; he squinted in defense of his eyes.

"Keep your pants on," came a gruff, rheumy-sounding male voice from behind the heavy, white-washed door. "I'm coming."

The door was opened and a man of about sixty, grey hair sticking up in just-showered tufts, a red flannel shirt opened to reveal a white T-shirt, and square-toed brown boots sticking out from the worn cuffs of faded denim jeans, appeared at the screen.

"Yeah?"

Dean smiled pleasantly, pulling out an ID, noting that Sam matched his motion and timing. Raising his badge so that the man could see that it looked official, just not read what it actually said, Dean started, "Sorry to bother you at this time of the night, sir, but we're from, uh, the Asheville _Citizen-Times_, and we'd-"

"You're from where?" the man interrupted.

"The newspaper, sir."

"So?"

Dean cleared his throat and glanced quickly at Sam. "My name is Dean and this is my partner, Sam-"

"Your partner, huh? Is that what they call it now?"

"M-my partner, er, uh... fellow investigator. At the paper. Sir." Dean pressed his lips together, trying to plaster his smile back into place. "You're Will Randall, right?"

"So what if I am?"

"We, uh..." Dean shifted his eyes behind Will, looking for someone, anyone that he might have more luck sweet-talking. "We'd like to ask you some questions about the, uh, bodies that were found in the forest back there."

"You would, huh?"

"Yessir," Dean said, finally able to slide his smile back into place.

"Already told the cops all they need to know," Will said, lifting an eyebrow at Dean. "But I don't 'spect they were too keen on sharin' all the bits with some young pup reporter, now were they?"

Dean softened his smile and crinkled the corner of his eyes up a bit. He knew it made him look younger. "No sir, they sure weren't."

Will shifted his small, brown eyes from Dean to Sam, and Dean saw his focus narrow, his wild, wiry eyebrows drawing together. The look on Will's face surprised Dean; it almost looked like the man was about to snarl at Sam. Then the eyes shifted back to him, and the furrows in Will's brow smoothed.

"Well, come on in, then," he shifted the hook lock off its hinge and swung the screen door wide. "Might as well get a cuppa coffee before you head back."

Dean nodded, tipping a salute with two fingers. "Appreciate it." He handed his flashlight to Sam, who stuffed it in the other pocket of his coat, and they stepped through the door and into what looked like the parlor area of the old farmhouse.

The décor looked to have been stalled somewhere around 1922. Two spindly chairs faced an uncomfortable-looking, floral-patterned couch with deep woodwork along the back and arms. A dresser graced one wall, with yellowing doilies draped across the top. A credenza sat across from it with several black and white pictures resting on it. To their immediate right was a staircase, and just under the staircase was a small door that looked to lead to a storage closet.

Will looked behind them to the empty lot. "You guys walk here?"

"Uh," Sam shifted his eyes to Dean. "Yeah, we were, uh, trying to get a sense of the area where the bodies were found."

Will studied Sam once more, and Dean felt an odd crawling sensation shift over his skin. He didn't like the look that once again rested on his brother. Working to draw the attention back to himself, he moved across the room toward the pictures displayed in worn, wooden frames.

"This your family?" he asked over his shoulder. He heard Will turn from Sam and cross over to him. Dean looked more closely at the pictures and forced himself to bite back a gasp of surprise.

"Yeah, that's my May... she's been gone a long time," Will gently touched the glass of the picture, almost caressing the two-dimensional cheek of his long-dead wife. "That one there," he nodded to the picture that had caught Dean's attention. "That's my boy, Henry."

"Is he here?" Sam asked, still standing over by the door.

Dean turned to him, staring intently at his brother, motionlessly beckoning him to approach. Sam frowned, and returned Dean's silent plea with an equally silent question. Dean pressed his lips together and slid his gaze deliberately to the display of photographs. Sam rolled his eyes, approaching as Will turned to face him.

"No," Will said.

Dean looked pointedly over his shoulder at Henry's picture. He watched as Sam's eyes hit it, widened, and then shifted to him.

"No?" Sam repeated.

Will turned away from them, casting a surreptitious glance at the small door just under the stairway as he did.

"No," he snapped. He walked away and stared out of the large picture-window just above the couch. "No, he took off. Left me here a coupla months ago..." Will looked over his shoulder at Sam, his eyes narrow and feral. "Left with his _partner_."

Sam swallowed. "Oh, I uh... I'm sorry to hear that."

Will's eyes shifted to Dean, and his expression softened. "Pretty heartless, don't you think? Leaving his father to deal with all this work? A farm don't run itself, ya' know."

He turned around, his back bowing slightly. Dean stayed silent, watching him.

"I mean, he knows what this job takes - it's not something you can do alone. It's... it's almost too hard to survive when you have someone fightin' it out with you, but alone..." Will shook his head.

Dean felt a chill. Will's words, innocent enough, and totally unrelated to his life, pierced him just as keenly as the demon's taunts in Missouri. _You fight and you fight for this family... but the truth is... they don't need you... not like you need them..._ He heard both this distraught father, angry with his son's perceived betrayal, and his own accusatory heart screaming out at John for the choice he made. The choice he'd denied Dean.

He felt the cold start from the center of his chest, creep through his ribs, and begin to spread to his arms. His fingers had started to tingle when the weight of Sam's hand on his shoulder shot warmth through him again.

"Dean?" Sam's whisper shook him almost as if his brother had bellowed his name.

Dean blinked, drawing himself back to the present, mentally shaking off the dark memories. "Uh, yeah... d-did you, uh..." he licked his lips. "Did you hear anything last night?"

"What do you mean, did I hear any-" Will turned around to face him, a question on his careworn face. "Hey, son, are you okay?"

Dean blinked again. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

Sam was watching him, too, Dean realized. He could feel his brother's eyes on him, searching... He watched as Will's eyes moved from his face to Sam's hand resting on his shoulder, and the flash of complete hatred that crossed Will's face shook Dean the rest of the way back to the present. He carefully shifted his shoulder so that Sam's hand dropped and then watched as Will's face smoothed out.

_Okay, 'bout had enough of freaky farmer-dude... gettin' Sam outta here _**_now_**_ is the new plan..._

"I'm fine...sorry," Dean forced out an embarrassed laugh, looking down with an almost sly expression. "We just had a late night last night's all... guess it's catching up with me."

Will lifted a wild, gray eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Late night with a lady, I'll bet." He waggled the lifted brow salaciously.

Dean grinned. "Two of 'em, actually." He shook his head as if in wonder. "Sure kept me busy."

Will chuckled. "I can imagine." His grin curled up slightly at the edges. "I was quite the ladies man myself, back in the day."

"Girl in every port, one on each arm?" Dean matched Will's grin. He felt Sam step back; he knew his brother had seen the look Will flashed him just as clearly as Dean had.

"Hell, yeah, boy," Will's grin widened until he was practically baring his teeth. "They couldn't get enough of ol' Will. 'Till I met May, that is."

"She was the one, huh?" Dean nodded at May's picture.

"She had it all, boy," Will shook his head. "Wasn't built for farm life... but she sure loved me. It woulda killed her, what happened with Henry... his leaving..."

"Sounds like a helluva woman," Dean said, pitching his voice lower, his tone respectful. He began to shift slightly to the left, sensing Sam behind him, doing the same, backing carefully toward the door.

Will nodded sadly, "That she was. That she was."

He lifted his head suddenly, and Dean and Sam froze. Dean regarded him innocently. "I'm sorry 'bout your son, man."

Will's eyes once again shifted toward the small door, then he closed them and dropped his head. "I didn't hear anything."

"Come again?" Dean asked.

"Last night... any of the nights. I didn't hear anything. Didn't see anything. Kept thinking if I had... maybe I coulda done something... I'm a decent shot. But, no. Didn't hear nothin'."

"Oh," Dean shot a look at Sam, who lifted a shoulder.

"I was proud of him," Will went on softly.

Dean turned his head back to Will. "Uh, who? You mean Henry?" he asked, trying to keep up.

Will nodded. "I was always proud of him... I just... I just never took a moment to tell him. There was always work to do, y'know? There was always something else to do..."

_You took care of Sammy, you took care of me... you _**_did_**_ that... I am so proud of you..._

"Yeah," Dean said in a tight voice. "Hey, uh, listen, Mr. Randall-"

"Will, please," Will looked up, lifting a placating hand toward Dean and tapping the air.

"Will," Dean nodded. "We're sorry to have bothered you so late. I think we need to, uh, get back to the, uh..."

"Office," Sam supplied.

"Right, the office and, uh-"

"Regroup," Sam said, his smile thin, his nod quick.

"You didn't have coffee," Will protested, looking at Dean.

"We'll be back," Dean promised. "Next time, okay?"

"You sure?"

They continued to back toward the door as Will advanced, his apparent need for companionship seeming to suddenly overpower the odd hatred that was directed at Sam.

Dean nodded. "Absolutely. Just need to get some more, uh, facts together. You know how it is."

Will nodded, frowning. "Sure, sure. Gotta be accurate."

"Accurate, right," Dean stumbled slightly as he backed out of the door. He gave Will a friendly smile, not worrying that it didn't touch his eyes. "You take care, now."

Will tossed him a wave, and Dean turned to follow Sam's long-legged escape from the dilapidated farm house.

"Dude," Sam whispered fiercely. "That weirded me out on so many different levels."

"No shit," Dean said, unable to suppress a shiver.

"That picture, Dean," Sam shook his head, barreling toward the dark woods. "That picture of his son could have totally been _you_."

"That was full-on creepy, man," Dean said, hurrying after him. "He sure didn't like you."

"Yeah," Sam nodded vigorously. "I noticed. What was with you back there, huh?" Sam shortened his stride; Dean caught up to him and matched his brother's cadence.

"What are you talking about?"

"You went white there for a second, man. You okay?"

"I'm fine, Sam."

_I want you to watch out for Sammy. You save him... if you can't save him... you'll have to kill him..._

"I'm fine," he repeated, softer. "I just... got..." Got what? Cold? Scared? Caught in a loop of words and memories that he couldn't escape? "He just wanted his son back, y'know?"

Sam nodded silently. Dean felt his brother's eyes on him in the darkness. He shook himself.

"I think we're too late on this hunt, though, man," he said.

"I'm not so sure, Dean."

"What are you talking about? Two deaths a month, last three months. This girl last night was the second this month. You heard him - he didn't hear anything, didn't see anything."

"Yeah, I know, but," Sam shrugged in the darkness. He was walking so close that Dean could feel the rustle of Sam's jacket against his the soft flannel of his shirt. "I just got this...feeling."

"A feeling? Like what, a tremor in the Force?"

Sam ignored him. "If we're dealing with the monster kind, it can turn anytime, right? Moon or no moon?"

Dean lifted a brow, realizing with Sam's mention of the moon that he'd neglected to retrieve his own flashlight, but he could still see well enough to walk. He glanced up. The last phase of the full moon was shining down on them through the canopy of trees like a silver beacon of death.

"Theoretically," he replied, glancing carefully through the dense trees. "This one seems to be sticking to the lunar cycle, though."

"Yeah, and tonight's the last night of the lunar cycle..." Sam ran a hand through his shaggy hair. "Maybe it's not the monster kind... maybe I'm wrong, but... I don't know. I just think that we're not done."

"Well, until we get more information on it - or hell, see the damn thing, we don't know what breed we're dealing with. Good news is, they're all killed the same way."

"But if it is the monster kind...uh..." Sam paused, then stopped completely.

"What?" Dean asked, looking quickly behind him.

"Nothing... just thought I heard something," Sam muttered.

"Well, shit, Sam, don't do that!"

"Scare you?"

"'Course not," Dean grumbled, shoving lightly at Sam's shoulder. He forced his breathing to steady.

"Hate to break this to you, man, but, uh," Sam glanced at him. Dean shot his eyes to the side, meeting his brother's heavy stare. "I think it's Henry."

"Yeah," Dean sighed. "I think you're right." He rolled his shoulders. Henry's leaving, Will's cagey behavior, the hunting grounds... it made a tragic sort of sense. "Too bad, y'know? That guy really misses his son."

"Well, if I'm right, his son might not have been too far away this whole time," Sam said.

Dean looked up - they were about two hundred yards from the edge of the road and the Impala. He felt his shoulders begin to relax at the thought of easing back into the leather seats, feeling the rumble beneath his legs, turning up the music-as loud as possible-to drown out the voice in his head... the constant voice of his father saying words he never wanted to hear, wanted so badly to forget.

"What was that?" Sam paused again.

"Sam, I swear to Go-" Dean stopped, hearing it suddenly, too. A wet sounding growl... a crack of a branch under a heavy foot... rustling through dried underbrush... the click of teeth.

"Told you," Sam whispered fiercely, pulling his gun from his waistband at the same time that Dean did.

Dean stepped up to Sam. "Shut the hell up and figure out where the damn thing is, why don't you?"

They turned in unison as the growl came from the west. A blur flashed across their path and the growl sounded from the east. Dean held his gun out in front of him, trying to maneuver his body in front of Sam's. Sam, however, was working to do the same thing.

"It's circling us," Sam murmured. "Hunting us."

"This bastard's smart, Sam," Dean said, turning again. He forced down a gag at the burst of fetid air that rushed passed him.

Another flash, and this time the growl was louder and directly in the path between them and the Impala. Dean cocked the .45 and the creature shifted again, a shadow darting back to the trees. Dean felt Sam turn, tracking the sound. Dean turned with him and soon they were back to back, standing in the center of the path, guns drawn, cocked, and pointing out at the evil cloaked in darkness.

"Sam," Dean whispered.

"Yeah?"

"Stay close to me. Move backwards. Toward the car."

Sam's answer was a gentle pressure on Dean's back, moving them toward the Impala, keeping their backs together. They were able to gain a few feet when Dean heard the shift in the creature's pattern, a deepening of its growl. He turned immediately, gun up, facing the darkness just in time to see a flash of yellow eyes as the creature lunged.

Directly at Sam.

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a/n: The cringe-inducing crooning at the begining is, of course, to Bon Jovi's _Living on a Prayer_.

tbc...


	2. Move swift

**Wolf and Man**

**Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors: **See Chapter 1

a/n: Thanks so much for your reviews! We had a great time writing this together and hope you enjoy how the rest of the story unfolds…

Kelly, again, thanks for seeing what we cannot.

_We shift,_

_Call of the wild,_

_Fear in your eyes…_

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Move swift

"Sam!" Dean bellowed as the beast lunged from the trees.

Jerking harshly to the side, Dean slammed Sam to the ground with the weight of his body, aiming his gun at the blur of fangs and fur. Pulling the trigger repeatedly, he dove to the ground after Sam. He saw the werewolf jerk, and though it seemed impossible, dodge to avoid the bullets. Dean heard it roar with rage as he rolled to his back, firing at the creature until he heard the chamber click.

"Move it, go, go!" he yelled at Sam, jumping up, grabbing Sam with one hand, pulling him to his feet and pushing him down the path behind him, away from the snarling, vicious growl echoing through the dark. He pulled his knife from its secured position in his waistband, and held it out in front of him like a sword as Sam stumbled behind him.

"The hell you doin' with that freakin' knife?" Sam yelled, pointing his Glock in the direction he'd last seen the werewolf. "You tryin' to get yourself killed?!"

_I want you to watch out for Sammy… save him… save him… or kill him…_

"Ran out of bullets!" Dean's eyes shot from the path to the trees.

"Spare clip?" Sam's eyes were darting along the empty path, shooting up to Dean's face, and back to the dark woods. Dean noticed with a sense of pride as Sam's gun never lost aim of the darkness, his grip never wavered.

"In my – look out, Sam!"

Dean barely had time to register a blur of dark fur and muscle that seemed to appear as a product of the darkness before the beast lunged again, rushing Sam and throwing him against Dean's chest. They landed in a tangle of limbs on the dirt path. The impact stole the air from Dean's body in a brutal rush, but he kept his grip on the knife. The werewolf's momentum carried it passed them after colliding with Sam and it bounded up instantly, raising itself to its full height.

"Holy shit," Dean heard Sam breathe.

From his sprawl on the ground, Dean stared in horror as moonlight revealed the creature. The monster was massive—over six feet in height on its hind legs, paws larger than Dean's hands, claws like fingers extending in a vicious glint of deadly power. Muscles rippled over its shoulders and down its ribs; its yellow eyes were full of knowing, evil intent, and its teeth glistened with the deadly saliva.

Pinned beneath Sam's legs, Dean shoved himself up to his elbow and shot a look over to his brother. Sam was feeling frantically along the ground, searching the forest floor in vain for the gun that had been knocked out of his hands upon impact.

"Get up, Sam!" Dean shoved against his brother's legs. "Go!"

A guttural growl carried with it a stench of death and rot. In the heartbeat of silence that followed the growl, the beast locked its feral eyes with Dean's, then shifted its gaze to Sam.

Sam scrambled to his feet, reaching back blindly for Dean. Never taking his eyes from the werewolf, Dean shoved his knife into the ground, grabbed a clip of silver bullets from his back pocket and in one fluid motion ejected the empty clip and shoved the new one in. Snarling, the werewolf dropped to all fours, its eyes still trained on Sam.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed, his legs coiling beneath him, thrusting his body upward.

The werewolf charged, closing the distance between it and Sam with lightning speed. Panic wrapped around Dean's heart as time slowed. He saw the hideous muscles beneath the creature's shoulders roll and bunch as it launched itself from the forest floor directly at Sam.

Dean didn't think. He simply reacted. All logic and planning escaped the moment the beast lunged at his brother. Using one arm to shove Sam out of the direct path of the beast's charge, Dean brought the .45 up, bracing his firing arm with the opposite hand. Before he could take the shot, the werewolf hit, knocking Dean backwards and sending the gun flying. Dean's head hit the ground with a teeth-jarring thud as he threw his arms in front of his face in an automatic gesture of defense. Denied its intended quarry, the beast roared, reared up, and raised a paw tipped with talon-like claws.

"No!" Dean heard Sam yell, his voice hoarse with panic, and time suddenly sped back up.

Dean shot his eyes to Sam, willing him away, willing him backwards. He saw Sam dive to the ground, roll and grab Dean's gun, raising his eyes and the gun simultaneously. Inside that same moment, Dean felt the creature's paw drop, slicing the air above him, reaching for him with deadly accuracy. He had a beat to shift away, to turn to the right, before the knife-like edges opened his shoulder and chest in a gory slash of blood.

Dean screamed.

Sam fired.

The werewolf jerked violently and with a howl of pain, fell backwards and away from Dean. Sam fired again but the creature was already stumbling into the darkness. Panting, Sam dropped his head briefly, then pushed himself to his knees and crawled over to Dean, who lay motionless, a dark stain spreading across his tattered flannel shirt.

Frantically scanning the trees around them, Sam struggled out of his jacket and long-sleeved shirt, then shifted his eyes down to the damage the werewolf had inflicted. Deep gashes marred Dean's chest and shoulder, blood pooling in the open wounds.

_Thank God it didn't bite him._

Pressing his shirt against the deepest of the cuts, Sam felt a moment of panic when Dean didn't react. He knew had to get Dean to safety, and fast, before the werewolf returned. Keeping the shirt against Dean's chest, Sam glanced up nervously, sure that the creature would be back to finish what it started.

_Goddammit, Dean…if you hadn't knocked me out of the way…_

But Sam knew that was never an option in Dean's mind. He'd known from a young age—had taken for granted most of his life—that his brother's every thought, his every breath centered on protecting Sam.

The clouds above the canopy of trees shifted in the stirring wind and a glint of metal reflected off of the dying moon, catching Sam's eye. He glanced down to Dean's left to find the Glock he'd dropped earlier. He checked the safety and stuffed it in the front waistband of his jeans, preferring the cold comfort of his brother's .45 already in his hand. Seeing his brother's knife, he gathered that up as well, tucking it behind him. His gaze shifted back to Dean's face; moonlight etched shadows under his lashes and caused the smattering of faint freckles across the bridge of his nose to stand out against the pallor of his skin.

_He's losing too much blood…gotta get this stopped. _

He grabbed Dean's face, turning it toward him. "Dean…can you hear me?" Nothing. Sam swallowed. "Hang on, man. I'm gonna' get you out of here."

Sam silently cursed the plaster cast that now made everything difficult. Lifting Dean was not going to be easy—though shorter, Dean was no less heavy and Sam knew he was going to have to carry his unconscious brother out of the darkness of the woods. Stuffing his long-sleeved shirt inside the tattered remains of his brother's T-shirt, Sam pulled his jacket back on, then grabbed Dean's left wrist and pulled him carefully into a sitting position. Dean's head slumped forward, his chin nearly touching his chest. Sliding an arm around Dean's waist, Sam raised himself up on one knee for leverage.

"Guhhh," he growled out as he lifted the limp form of his brother over his shoulder and gripped the back of Dean's knees, his left hand still wielding the .45. He stood, balancing Dean's dead weight carefully before staggering toward the safety of the Impala.

Breathing harshly, Sam shifted his eyes from side-to-side, watching the darkened trees, both blessing and cursing the wan light of the moon as it coyly led him to safety. He resisted the urge to look back over his shoulder, hoping the silver in the bullet that caught the beast would delay any return. He stumbled twice, legs straining under his heavy cargo.

The Impala was directly in front of them now and he managed to maneuver the gun to the fingers of his other hand, and gingerly patted the pockets of his brother's jeans. He felt the shape of the flask in one back pocket. Shifting, he reached into Dean's front pocket for the keys. Relief washed over him as he closed the distance to the car.

_Almost there…_

As he was leaning forward to insert the keys into the lock of the passenger door, he suddenly stopped and stared at the car, disbelieving.

"The hell?"

Dread tightened his chest as he processed the scene before him. Their only means of escape, their home, Dean's baby… rested on a set of slashed, flat tires.

_Dean is gonna be so pissed…_

Sam froze as the reality of the situation sank in. Fifteen miles from town, Dean's blood soaking through Sam's own shirt, a werewolf that could return at any moment…and no way out. Icy tendrils of panic began to wrap around his heart, stifling his breath.

He glanced up and down the road. Dark. Empty. Not one car in sight. Mind racing, he turned and stared back down the trail he'd just come from. _Will Randall's place…I can call for help, get Dean patched up._

Sam drew a deep, ragged breath. He shifted Dean's body slightly, cringing as he heard Dean's low moan of pain. Fear knotted the base of his spine. Dean still hadn't regained consciousness and the blood flow showed no signs of abating. Sam knew he had no choice. Shifting the .45 back into his other hand, he adjusted his grip on Dean's legs and entered the forest.

The wind picked up again, and clouds obscured the moon. Without the aid of a flashlight, the path was back of the eyelids dark. As he made his way carefully down the path, he prayed that clouds would shift just enough so that he didn't run into a tree—_or trip over another freakin' root_. Suddenly, Sam could see the light from the Randall farmhouse through the trees. He forced himself to focus on that light, to ignore the burning in his muscles and the fear in his stomach. Catching the toe of his boot on a tree root, Sam stumbled, nearly dropping his unconscious passenger. Dean groaned, but didn't wake.

"Dammit," Sam grumbled, forcing himself to move forward.

_Just hang on, Dean. I'm getting us out of this. _

Sam's lower back ached from bearing Dean's weight; he felt himself begin to tremble from exertion. After what seemed like an eternity, he reached the edge of the forest and glanced back nervously. He willed one foot in front of the other.

_Almost there… _

Looking once more over his shoulder, he gave a silent prayer of thanks that the werewolf had not returned. _Must've clipped it pretty good. _He climbed the steps to the porch of the farmhouse on shaky legs and banged twice on the door frame with the butt of the gun. Near collapse, he carefully slid Dean off of his shoulder. Propping his unconscious brother against the house in a semi-upright position and keeping one hand on Dean's shoulder, Sam swung the screen wide and tried the knob to the inner door, weak with relief as it turned and allowed him entry.

A single lamp illuminated the parlor; the rest of the house was dark. Sam wrapped one arm around Dean's middle and tucked the other under his undamaged shoulder, dragging him over the threshold and kicking the door shut behind them, shouting into the gloom.

"Will! It's Sam and Dean…from the…from the paper! We need help!"

Silence. _Where the hell is he? _Sam hoped that if Will returned he wouldn't shoot first and ask questions later upon finding relative strangers in his home.

At this point, he honestly didn't care. Dean was bleeding in his arms. In a dizzying flash of memory, Sam recalled countless times Dean had done the same for him or for John.

Dragging Dean over to the stiff-looking floral couch beneath the window, Sam panted, "Other kids get skinned knees from falling off bikes… broken arms from football games." He hefted Dean's hip up on the couch. "We get broken ribs from poltergeists and puncture wounds from wendigos…"

He eased Dean gingerly onto the worn fabric of the couch. Dean's head lolled toward the back of the couch, away from Sam. Setting the .45 on the ground next to the couch, Sam pulled the Glock and the Bowie knife from his jeans and dropped them next to Dean's gun, then shrugged out of his jacket and laid it over the weapons.

Pulling the blood-soaked shirt from its make-shift patch job, Sam grimaced as the deep cut across Dean's collarbone immediately began bleeding again. Four slashes started at his shoulder and carried across his sternum, too close to his heart for Sam.

Looking over his shoulder, he quickly appraised the layout of the lower level, surmising that the hallway branching off of the parlor area probably led to a bathroom; he could see a galley kitchen just off the living room. He replaced the shirt against Dean's wounds and stood. With a backward glance at his brother, he began searching the house.

His quest for supplies rounded up some towels, a large bowl of warm, soapy water, antiseptic, a tube of antibiotic ointment, and a small roll of gauze. While he'd been looking he'd kept an eye out for a phone but to his amazement, there didn't appear to be one anywhere in the farmhouse.

"I couldn't get any cell coverage…how the hell does the old guy communicate with anyone?" Sam muttered, running a frustrated hand through his hair.He flashed back to the image of Randall's face as he spoke of his wife and son. _Maybe he doesn't want to... _

Returning to Dean, Sam set the supplies down, grabbed Dean's knife and started to cut the torn, bloody shirts from Dean's chest. Dean was shivering, pulling away from Sam, his eyes moving beneath his closed lids in a restless dream. His lips moved rapidly but no sound emerged. Sam worked quickly, carefully, his eyes darting from the claw marks to Dean's face then back.

He pulled the last of his brother's shirts from under him, then began to clean the blood away, grimacing in empathy as the rough edges of the towel brushed the raw wounds and Dean moaned.

"Where's Sam," Dean mumbled, his brows pulling together in a frown.

"I'm right here, Dean," Sam reassured.

"Where's Sam…" Dean muttered again, turning his head against the couch until he faced Sam, his eyes fluttering. "Can't leave him alone… gotta make sure…"

"I'm not alone, Dean," Sam said, wiping away the rest of the blood. "I'm right here."

Dean frowned again but didn't speak again.

His skin was hot under Sam's hand. Sam dropped the bloody towel into the basin of water and started to reach for the antiseptic when a thought hit him. The werewolf might not have bitten Dean, but there was still enough disease in its claws… enough that Sam knew Dean could spike a fever in no time at all. Sam lay the back of his left hand on Dean's forehead and bit his lip as the heat that he'd felt in Dean's shoulder radiated back to him.

Sam forced himself to focus, to think through the steps his father had taught him, the steps he'd seen Dean take with John twice before. _Holy water_… he needed to clean the wounds with holy water. _Shit…where am I gonna find…_

_Dean's flask_.

Sam rolled Dean carefully to his side and pulled the small, round, silver flask from Dean's back pocket, praying it was the one Bobby had given him with holy water and not whiskey. As he laid Dean back against the couch, he cursed as the deepest wound began to bleed again from that small movement. Setting the flask next to the other supplies, Sam grabbed a clean towel and pressed it, hard, against the wound.

"AH!" Dean cried out, his face pulling together in pain.

Sam watched anxiously, wanting to see Dean's eyes, yet praying he'd stay unconscious—just until the wounds were cleaned. Dean turned his head roughly against the couch and began to swear, his breaths coming in uneven pants.

"You bastard… you can't just…_say_ that… you _can't_… Dad, don't… don't… I don't want to hear it…"

Sam's brows met over the bridge of his nose. _Dad? Say what?_ What would Dean not want to hear?

"Can't let him see… can't let him… dammit, Sammy…"

"Dean, hey," Sam whispered as Dean's tortured murmurings increased, his body twisting as though struggling away from a memory that pursued him relentlessly. Red spots of fever appeared beneath Dean's closed eyes. "Dean, it's okay, hey, it's okay… take it easy…"

"…never stops… goddammit Dad…"

"Easy, Dean," Sam reassured, pulling the bloody towel away. "Just take it easy."

"Because of me," Dean whispered. Sam felt his heart lurch at the soft, broken tone. "He's gone… he's gone, Sammy…"

"I know, man," Sam whispered.

_Dad's dead because of me… _

He knew Dean couldn't hear him, couldn't feel him, but he reached out and laid a hand on Dean's cheek, rubbing at the lines of pain and worry across his brother's forehead with his thumb.

"I know, Dean. But I'm here, okay? I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

"Have to watch…" Dean's lips barely moved. "Can't let it happen… have to watch out for him…"

Focusing on trying to heal his brother, rather than making sense of Dean's fevered outbursts, Sam unscrewed the cap on the flask and sniffed the opening. _Definitely not whiskey._ Looking back at Dean, he clenched his jaw and gripped Dean's left shoulder with the fingers of his right hand, his cast pressing against Dean's collarbone.

"I'm sorry, man," he muttered. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch."

Taking a breath, Sam steeled himself, then began to slowly pour the holy water over the slashes on Dean's shoulder and chest.

Dean's scream of pain sent shivers of misery down Sam's spine. Bucking against Sam's restraining hand, Dean arched his back, his head pressed deep into the couch, his hands fisted at his sides as agony poured from his mouth and steam from the cuts rose on his chest.

Sam was forced to stand to keep his grip on Dean, to keep Dean still. He continued to pour the holy water over the wounds, sweat rolling down the back of his neck and collecting on his upper lip, his hand pressing Dean back onto the couch. Dean reached up with his left hand, his eyes closed tight, clenching his jaw as realization seemed to return slowly to him. His scream turned into a low growl as he gripped Sam's arm above the cast, his fingers digging in to Sam's flesh, turning the tips white.

_Hang on, Dean_…

Dean stopped breathing. Sam had a flash of panic until he realized that his brother was holding his breath to keep from crying out. Dean was awake.

"Easy, man… easy, almost done."

A muscle jumped in Dean's jaw, but he didn't respond, and he didn't breathe.

The flask was finally empty. Bloody water soaked into the floral print on the couch beneath Dean. Sam dropped the flask, then grabbed up one of the towels and pressed it against the wounds, his eyes pinned to Dean's face.

"Breathe, man," Sam commanded. "Hey… Dean, hey."

Dean's jaw trembled and he slowly, very slowly, let air out through his lips. His wounded arm began to tremble violently. Sam continued to hold the towel steady but felt his body react to the relief of seeing Dean breathe. He sagged a bit, his shoulders bowing, and dropped his head, whispering _that's it... that's it, Dean… you did good…_

"W-what… the hell, Sam?"

"Wolf got you," Sam whispered, not raising his head.

"N-no shit," Dean's voice held tight to the edge of control he'd mustered. "Where are we?"

Sam brought his head up, meeting Dean's hazy green eyes. "Will Randall's place."

"Where's he?" Dean closed his eyes tight, pushing his head back and away from Sam.

"Don't know," Sam lifted the towel. "I gotta get you stitched up, man. You're losing too much blood."

"'K."

"The thing is—"

The crack of the back door slamming caused Dean to jump. His eyes met Sam's and he jerked his head toward the sound, indicating he should go check it out. Sam narrowed his eyes at Dean briefly, then stood, grabbing the Glock from the pile of weapons on the floor. He crept carefully around the corner, his gun leading the way, and pulled up short when the barrel hit Will Randall dead-center on the forehead.

"Whoa!" Sam jumped.

"What in the holy hell—"

"Sorry, sorry," Sam lifted the gun, flat, holding up both hands to show he meant no harm. "I didn't know it was you."

Will's eyes were fierce in a pale face, his hair in disarray. "Well who the hell else is it gonna be at two in the morning?" His voice was a raspy growl. "What in blazes are you doin' in my house?!"

Sam glanced quickly at Will's attire. He was dressed pretty much as they had left him, except that now there was blood on his shirt sleeves and his boots were caked with what looked like mud. Will was looking at him, challenging, and Sam hurried to put his gun away.

"We, uh… we need help," he stammered.

"We?" Will's eyes snapped at him, ferocious in their anger.

"My bro—er, partner and me," Sam glanced back over his shoulder. "We got jumped by a wolf in the woods. It cut Dean up pretty bad."

He turned back to face Will, amazed by the change that came over the man. His expression melted immediately from anger to a strange combination of fear and worry. Sam caught his breath at the back of his throat; he had seen an expression like that once before, long ago. On his father's face.

Sam licked his lips. "I'm sorry to just bust in on you like this…"

"No, no," Will started to step past Sam, moving toward the doorway to the other room. "It's okay – had a… a heifer that was calving… she needed some help. I was out in the barn and didn't hear you come in is all."

At the edge of the hall, Will turned back. "He… he okay?"

Sam turned and led the way back to the front parlor area and Dean.

"Dean?"

Dean's eyes were closed, his right hand resting on his chest. He was breathing rapidly, his face shiny with sweat, and the towel that Sam had left across his cuts was already soaking through with blood. Sam stepped up close to the couch and called his name again. Dean didn't flinch.

"Dammit," Sam muttered, reaching for the antiseptic and gauze. "I need something to sew up these cuts… and some pain meds." He looked at Will. "You got anything like that?"

Will lifted a shoulder, seemingly unable to tear his eyes from Dean's face. "What I got's mostly for animals, Son. Might have something that could work on your partner, though."

"Just bring me whatever you got," Sam said, kneeling next to Dean. "And some more towels. And a phone."

"No phone," Will said over his shoulder as he headed to the kitchen.

_I was afraid of that…_

"Didn't need it when Henry was living here… and now," Will continued in a raised voice from out of Sam's line of sight. "Well, I get my groceries delivered once a week, and everything else I need I have here on the farm."

"You got a car or truck or something?" Sam looked up hopefully as Will returned. Dean shifted, a low moan sneaking through his unguarded defenses.

Will shook his head. "Henry took it," he said. "I made him."

"Shit," Sam muttered, pulling the bloody towels away. "What did you find?"

Will handed him a bottle of antibiotics with a prescription written for Henry Randall one year ago, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a large sewing needle with black thread. Sam winced when he saw the needle, but he knew it was better than nothing. He took the items from Will, setting them on the floor.

"What'd ya do to yer hand?" Will muttered, his eyes shifting from Dean's bloody chest to Sam's cast.

"Broke it," Sam replied, uncapping the antiseptic.

"How?"

"I fell," Sam said and poured the antiseptic onto Dean's chest using the towel to catch the run-off.

Dean jerked violently and his eyes flew open. "Jesus Christ!" He breathed, his hand flying up to grip Sam's arm.

"Take it easy, Dean," Sam soothed.

"Sam…" Dean ground his name out through gritted teeth. He rolled his eyes closed, his hand still gripping Sam's arm.

"Listen to me," Sam said, his voice low, serious. "Dean, hey, listen to me."

"'M listening," Dean mumbled.

"Look at me," Sam commanded. He felt Will shift closer, watching. Dean forced his eyes open, slits of green focused on Sam's face. "I'm gonna stitch you up."

"'K."

Sam lifted the large needled. "With this."

"Oh, fuck," Dean growled, closing his eyes.

"Open your eyes, Dean," Sam commanded.

Dean obeyed. His eyes were red-rimmed, pupils wide from pain. His lashes tented together from the sweat gathering on his forehead and cheeks.

"You have a fever," Sam informed him. "I need you to take something for me."

Dean swallowed, then nodded. Sam looked at Will. "Can you get me some water?"

Will nodded, shifting worried eyes once to Dean, then turned and went to the kitchen.

"Dean, you with me?"

"Yeah, Sam," Dean nodded.

"We may not have much time," Sam whispered urgently, his tone drawing Dean's attention. "If we're dealing with the monster kind," he continued, his blue-green eyes boring into his brother's, knowing Dean would understand, "daylight may not be enough, you get me?"

Dean nodded, his eyes rolling closed, the lines deepening between his brows. He clenched his jaw. "W-where's the car?"

"She's uh… got two flat tires," Sam said, wincing when Dean's eyes flew open.

"Son of a _bitch_," he growled. A muscle jumped in his jaw. "Swear to _God _I'm gonna kill…"

"Here's the water," Will said, returning from the kitchen.

Sam nodded his thanks, tapping out some antibiotics and ibuprofen into his hand. He looked at Dean. "Can you sit up?"

"Yeah," Dean nodded, tightening his stomach muscles, then dropping his head back weakly. "No," he admitted softly.

Sam turned Dean's hand over, dropped the meds into it, then carefully eased him up to a half-sitting position. Dean tossed the pills into his mouth, reaching for the water with a shaking hand, then let Sam ease him back onto the couch. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and Sam watched as his jaw trembled with the effort to keep any sound of pain inside.

"You ready?" Sam asked softly.

Dean forced his eyes open, looking at the massive needle in Sam's left hand.

"This sucks out loud," he muttered.

"Hey, you pushed me out of the way, remember," Sam said.

"Oh, right," Dean opened his eyes wider, trying to focus, working to stay conscious. "Next time you can be the werewolf chew toy."

"Werewolf?" Will sputtered.

Dean closed his eyes and Sam dropped his head.

"Yeah, uh," Sam said, raising his head and looking at Will over his shoulder. "We're not really reporters."

"That part I figured," Will said, dropping heavily into one of the nearby, high-backed chairs. "Reporters don't wear flannel."

Sam threaded the needle, shifting his eyes quickly to Dean. "Shoulda kept the leather."

Dean's eyes were on the needle. "Burn it," he ground out.

"I know," Sam said, pulling a lighter from his pocket.

"Where'd you get that," Dean asked, fisting his hands at his sides and clenching his jaw.

"Gordon," Sam said, lifting an eyebrow and sliding the tip of the needle into the flame until it turned black.

"What did he mean, _werewolf_?" Will said, leaning forward, watching as Sam poured antiseptic over the blackened needle.

Sam shifted his eyes quickly to Will. "Can we do this in a minute?"

"Oh," Will sat back. "Uh, yeah, sure."

"Dean?"

"What," Dean's voice was rough with anticipation of the pain to come.

"You ready?"

"I got a choice?"

"You could keep bleeding," Sam said, leaning forward.

"Do it," Dean said, closing his eyes.

Sam shifted the needle to the fingers of his right hand, holding it gingerly away from his cast. He hadn't had a chance to get used to field medicine with the plaster inhibiting his movement and wasn't looking forward to balancing the cast while sewing his brother up with a broadsword. Holding the deepest wound together with his left hand, he began to sew. Dean pulled in air through his nose and Sam saw the muscle in his jaw coil.

As Dean's breathing increased in speed, Sam focused his attention on just the stitch he was on and not the several he knew were in front of him. As he closed the wound over Dean's collarbone, a groan of pain escaped and Dean turned his head, pressing his face hard into the back of the couch.

Will stood up and shoved a hand through his wild hair. "Jesus, Henry," he muttered. "Just pass out already…"

"Will," Sam snapped, ignoring the old man's slip of a name. "Shut up."

"Sam…" Dean managed on a quick exhale.

"Need me to stop?"

"For a second," Dean admitted.

Sam sat back, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He noticed with a quick flash of pride that his hand wasn't shaking. Yet.

"H-how…" Dean started, then squeezed his eyes tight, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Dean?"

"H-how'd you get it from Gordon?"

Sam suddenly realized that Dean just needed to hear his voice. He would never ask, never had before, but Sam knew that if their positions were reversed, Dean would keep up a steady stream of banter and inane conversation just to keep Sam's mind from the pain. He'd never really thought about the fact that Dean did that because he needed it in return.

"When I left you two telling war stories at the bar," Sam said, reaching for a towel and wiping away more seeping blood. "It was on the table in the room. Snagged it right before the vamps jumped me."

"Klepto," Dean said on a groan.

"Dude, he had _you_ at the time," Sam lifted a shoulder. "I was…"

"Pissed?"

"Jealous."

Sam leaned forward and began to sew again, ignoring the fact that Will was pacing like a caged tiger on the other side of the room, directly in front of the basement door. Ignoring the growing light of the coming day as it crept through the window and slowly illuminated Dean's pale face. Ignoring everything but Dean, the needle, and the blood. In this moment, the only thing that existed for Sam was his brother.

"J-jealous… Ah, shit, Sammy…" Dean's left hand curled into a shaking fist.

Sam continued to talk as he stitched. "Yeah, well, you were talking to him, man."

"Big m-mistake."

"Well, yeah, but all I could think was that… ah, sorry," Sam winced when Dean hissed with pain as he tied off one end, then leaned forward to start on another. He knew this was a temporary solution to a bigger problem, but it would have to do. "All I could think was that I… I kept after you to talk to me… and you were talking to _Gordon_."

"I was… I was right… there, Sammy."

"No you weren't," Sam said softly. "You were near me, but you haven't been with me since… hell, since you woke up in the hospital."

_There this… this pit in my stomach… Sam, something's wrong…_

Dean was silent for a moment and Sam paused, searching his face, checking to see if he'd passed out. Dean blinked his eyes open. Sam continued to stitch.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean whispered in the same empty, broken voice he'd had that day at the side of the road. It cut through Sam; for a moment, he couldn't breathe.

"You used the lighter, y'know," Sam said, trying to bring Dean's focus back, trying to shake his own from the moment he'd forever regret, the moment he'd seen his brother's broken heart and had nothing to say.

"I did?"

Sam winced as he pulled together a particularly deep section of the wound. "The candles for Angela's grave."

"Huh, I didn't even… ah! Fucking _hell_, Sam…"

"Easy, Dean, hold still, man."

"Jesus _Christ_," Dean panted. He pounded a fist into the couch.

"I'm going outside," Will growled and slammed the front door behind him. Sam had completely forgotten he was there.

"Easy, Dean," Sam continued in a low, calm voice.

"C-candles…"

"Yeah, that's right," Sam nodded, forcing himself not to hurry, not to just try to get it done and end Dean's suffering, forcing himself to do it right. "You lost your lighter back at Mordecai 's… easy, take it easy… and when you got all Zen with the candles, you just took what I gave you."

"P-pretty good idea, though."

"Oh sure, anything where I'm bait for a zombie version of Speed Racer you'd think is a good idea," Sam tied off the last stitch and started in on the last of the deep gashes. "You shoulda played baseball, man, the way you slid into that grave."

"I d-did…"

"Really?"

"High s-school… one… one of them," Dean turned from smashing his face into the back of the couch and blinked up at Sam. "P-pitcher."

"How did I not know that?" Sam shot his eyes up to Dean's flushed, sweat-soaked face. He noticed that when his brother's lashes stuck together it gave him the appearance of one much younger than their lives had ever allowed him to be.

"Y-you were… busy being a k-kid…"

Dean's flat honesty kicked Sam in the gut.

"Almost there…"

Dean's eyes fluttered. Sam knew he was on the edge. He was surprised Dean had held on this long.

"I talked to you," Dean whispered, his eyes sliding closed. "T-told you…"

Sam swallowed. _Dad's dead because of me… what could you possibly say to make that alright?_

"I know, Dean," he said.

"G-Gordon was… nothing, Sam." Dean's shoulders started to relax, his fisted fingers uncurling as his body slowly gave way to oblivion. "T-told you…"

"You told me what mattered," Sam whispered as Dean finally succumbed.

He finished the last of the stitches, then poured more antiseptic over the cuts. He gingerly applied the antibiotic cream over the wounds, shaking his head at the black thread that held his brother together. It certainly wasn't the first time Dean had had stitches, but it was the first time he'd sewn his brother up and left him looking like the result of a science project. He carefully wrapped his chest and shoulder with the little gauze they had, then draped his jacket over Dean.

He slid to the floor, putting his back against the couch, pulling his knees up and resting his forehead on his folded arms. He was suddenly shaking. The tremors built from his belly through his heart and out through his limbs, leaving him weak. He felt tears, hot and angry, behind his eyes. He wanted to give in, to allow that release, but he couldn't. Dean hadn't let one tear escape. Sam couldn't let him down now.

He sat with his back to his brother, Dean's hip resting against the back of Sam's neck, and let the tremors wash over him and through him. Dean shifted slightly and his hand slid from the couch to rest on Sam's shoulder. Sam's breath hitched, but he didn't break.

"Is it over?"

Will's voice startled him and Sam lifted his head.

"It's done," Sam nodded, not moving. "I gotta get him out of here, though."

Will rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Kid… what the hell?"

Sam blinked back at Will. The older man walked over to the dresser with the display of family pictures. He picked up Henry's picture, rubbing a thumb over his son's smiling face.

"I mean," Will cleared his throat, turning back to Sam. "Werewolves? Vampires?"

Sam rolled his neck, the back of his head rubbing against Dean's leg with the movement. "Our lives are… weird."

"How do you know about them? The werewolves."

Sam pulled his eyebrows together in question. "How do _you _know about them?"

Will shot his eyes to the basement door, then turned back to the dresser and set Henry's picture down. "I don't, really. Just… just from… things I've… I've heard."

"Well," Sam sighed, rolling his neck. "I hate to tell you this, but unless we figure out a way to get back to town, you're probably going to learn more about them than you want to know."

"We could walk," Will said, looking out of the window behind Sam. Sunlight had long ago lit up the room.

Sam shook his head. "Dean can't walk that far." He looked at his brother over his shoulder. "And if this, uh, werewolf is the kind I think it is… the full moon doesn't matter, and it's not gonna wait until dark."

Will looked at Sam, his eyes flashing something indiscernible. Sam felt an odd chill sneak down his back.

"Won't someone come looking for you?"

Sam shook his head. "We… kinda live under the radar. Nobody even knows we're here," he said, his voice almost sad with that realization.

Will nodded. He took a deep breath and rubbed his hands tiredly over his face. "I gotta check the calf," he said, then dropped his hands. "You boys gonna be okay for a bit?"

Sam nodded, resisting the urge to curl up on the floor and sleep.

"Help yourself to the kitchen," Will said, heading toward the back of the house. "We'll figure something out for your, uh… partner."

"He's my brother, Will," Sam said.

Will looked over at him. "Brother?" His eyes shifted to Henry's picture. "Henry never had a brother."

"Yeah, well," Sam said, watching the dark expression that crossed Will's face. "Dean does."

"Maybe he wouldn't have… become what he did… wouldn't have left with… that one… if he'd had a brother," Will muttered, his voice bitter, his eyes on Henry's picture, then walked out of the house.

Sam heard the door bang shut behind him. He dropped his head back on Dean's leg.

"You have a brother," he whispered, closing his eyes. "You have a brother, Dean. And I'm gonna get you out of this…"

He was drained, exhausted, spent. He didn't have the energy to blink, to move. He would just rest here a minute… just a minute, then they'd figure out a plan. They'd get the werewolf. They'd do their job.

"Gotta get out…"

Sam frowned in his sleep. He was curled around Jessica, his nose in her hair, his hand on her belly. She always fit so perfectly against him, like a missing piece of his puzzle. Her hair smelled like flowers.

"Gotta get out, Sam."

He could hear Dean. How could he hear _Dean_ when he was with Jess? He shifted and Jess was gone. He wasn't wrapped around her, he was cold and alone. He frowned again. He wanted her back.

"Go… Sam… leave me."

He could hear fear in his brother's voice. Desperation. _Leave Dean? _What was wrong? Something had happened. He remembered something had happened to Dean. He turned, opening his eyes to look for Dean. He was lying on the wood floor of an old farmhouse. He could see the spindly legs of several chairs, the faded, frayed ends of a floor rug and the darkness under the gap of a small door beneath a set of stairs.

"Sam…" Dean's muttered whisper snapped him back.

He pushed himself slowly to a sitting position. His jaw was sore, and he looked down. He'd been sleeping on Dean's gun. He rubbed the side of his face, knowing that there would be a pretty interesting sleep mark on his face, and looked over at Dean twisting restlessly on the floral couch.

Dean's eyes were closed, his brow furrowed, his lips turned down into a frown.

"Sam, get the hell out…"

"Dean," Sam reached out and wrapped his fingers around Dean's wrist. "Dean, hey, calm down."

Dean instantly complied. He wasn't awake, but he stilled under Sam's touch. Sam looked out of the window above the couch. The sun was at its peak in the faded blue sky. He'd been sleeping for several hours. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. Will was nowhere in sight. Pushing himself to his feet, he pulled his coat down and checked Dean's bandages. Some blood had seeped through, but it didn't look too bad.

Dean's skin was hot to the touch. Sam looked at the supplies and bloody towels strewn about the floor. He found the meds, poured more into his hand, then headed to the kitchen to get more water. He scrounged up some coffee and the fixings for two sandwiches, then returned to Dean.

"Hey, man," Sam tapped Dean's face. "Open your eyes, Dean. Need you to wake up a minute."

Slowly, as if they were weighted with lead, Dean blinked his eyes open.

"Hey, there," Sam grinned at him.

"Dude," Dean blinked again. "The hell happened to your face?"

"Slept on your gun."

Dean looked at him, blankly. Sam grinned, his dimples revealing nothing more.

"Can't say I've heard that one before," Dean admitted with a small answering grin.

"How you feeling?" Sam reached out with his left hand and helped ease Dean upright.

"Like shit," Dean groaned, holding his wounded arm close to him and leaning against the back of the couch.

"You look it." Sam handed him the meds. "Here. I got coffee and sandwiches, too."

"Don't think I can eat," Dean muttered with the pills in his mouth.

"You gotta," Sam said. "Too many pain pills, not enough food."

"Nazi," Dean grumbled, swallowing the water.

"Will's been gone for awhile," Sam said, handing Dean a sandwich.

Dean began eating, looking around the room. "How'd he take the whole werewolf thing?"

"Surprisingly well." Sam shook his head. "I think he knows."

"Knows that his son could use up a pack of razors and still be a hair farmer?"

Sam shot him an amused look. "Hair farmer?"

Dean lifted his shoulder.

"Yeah, I think he knows his son is the werewolf," Sam nodded, handing Dean the cup of coffee when he finished his sandwich. "I think he's here."

"Here as in _here_ here?"

"I think he's in the basement."

Dean shot his eyes over to the small door. "Son of a bitch."

Sam nodded. "Hey, Dean?"

"Hm?"

"Do you remember what you were dreaming?"

"I don't dream." Dean shook his head, looking away.

"Like hell," Sam replied. "You kept telling me to get out."

"Well, then, I must have been dreaming about a woman and you were interrupting," Dean said, drinking his coffee.

Sam looked down, Dean's attempt at a brush-off hitting a little too close to home for him. He took Dean's empty cup and set it down next to the rest of the discarded supplies, then picked up his gun, checking the clip.

"What are you doing?"

Sam looked over at Dean, shoving the clip back into the gun. "Gonna go check out the basement."

"Not without me, you're not," Dean said, pushing against the back of the couch, attempting to get to his feet.

"Don't be an idiot," Sam pushed him back. "You can't even stand."

"Sam, I am not letting you go down there by yourself."

"You don't have a choice, Dean," Sam argued.

Dean tried to push up again, but this time Sam didn't even have to force him down. His arm trembled and he sat heavily, gripping his wounded arm with a hiss of pain.

"Sammy, let's just go… just… get the hell out."

Sam started back at Dean in shock. "What about the hunt?"

"Screw the hunt," Dean spat out angrily. "Old man's hiding his wolfed-out son in the basement… let _him_ deal with it."

"It's killing people, Dean," Sam argued, grabbing Dean's .45 from the floor. "It almost killed you."

"Sammy… please," Dean whispered, drawing Sam's eyes. "I got a bad feeling about this one, man."

"Listen," Sam said, tucking Dean's gun in his waistband and flicking the safety off of his Glock. "I'll just go check it out, okay? I won't do anything stupid, I promise."

Dean leaned forward, his forehead in his hand, his elbow resting on his knee. "I just… what if I can't…"

Sam peered at him. "What?"

In a low, almost secretive voice, Dean whispered, "Save you."

Sam squared his shoulders. "Maybe this time I save you," he said.

Before Dean's eyes could catch him again, Sam turned and headed to the basement door. He twisted the knob, then dropped his shoulders, frowning.

"Locked?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam muttered. "You got the—"

"Left it in my jacket."

"Shit," Sam frowned at the lock. "Well maybe I could…"

He went to the kitchen, grabbed a fork, pressing the silver tongs on the edge of the counter, bending them so that he had a fairly usable lock pick. Returning to the door, he glanced at Dean. His brother had slumped sideways against the arm of the couch, his eyes closed. From across the room, he could see Dean shivering and wished he had some sort of shirt to give him. He stepped over to him quickly, draped his blood-stained coat over Dean's bare, bandaged chest. As he did, he felt Dean's flashlight in the pocket. He pulled it out, then returned to the door.

Picking the lock with the fork ended up taking less time than he'd thought and soon Sam was entering the basement in a low crouch, his arms crossed at the wrists with the flashlight on and clutched awkwardly in his right hand, the cast preventing him from getting a good grip. There were stairs directly in front of him and he slowly made his way down, the hazy beam from the flashlight barely penetrating the darkness. The dank, earthy smell of the basement was laced with a sickeningly-sweet smell of rot and decay.

Sam held his breath, listening for sounds of movement, of breathing, of anything indicating Henry's presence—in human or wolf form. He reached the bottom of the stairs, sweeping the flashlight beam around the small, cluttered room. The walls and floor were made of packed earth. There were no windows, and Sam could see a slanted cellar door on the far side leading outside.

There were rotted, broken wooden shelves with remnants of jars that had once been filled with fruit or vegetables of some kind. There were pieces of farm implements. There were bags of rock salt stacked next to an old water heater. There were shovels and pitchforks.

But there was no Henry. And there was no wolf.

Sighing, Sam started to turn to head back up the stairs when his flashlight beam suddenly caught on something near one of the shovels. He tipped his head to the side, then approached cautiously, realizing it was a low mound of earth.

"Aw, man," Sam whispered.

He set the flashlight on top of the water heater, tucked his Glock into the front of his jeans, then picked up the shovel. In minutes he'd uncovered two still-decaying bodies. One had a very distinct bullet hole in its head, the other looked like his chest had been torn to shreds.

"Hello, Henry," Sam whispered. He looked at the other body. "And partner."

As the sick realization rolled over him, Sam ran his hand over his face. _Will... it's Will..._ He heard a door open in the room above him and went cold. Dropping the shovel, he turned and started up the stairs at a run. The basement door slammed just as he reached it and Sam heard the lock click.

"Will!" He screamed. "Will, unlock this door!"

He slammed his shoulder against the door, but the difference between the door's height and his made it difficult for him to apply the right amount of force.

"Will!"

He heard something scraping along the floor, things rattling, falling, crashing. The basement door shook as whatever had been moved across the floor was positioned in front of the door.

"DEAN!" Sam screamed. "Dean wake up! It's Will, not Henry! DEAN!"

"He can't hear you, Sam," Will's voice whispered through the lock. "Henry never had a brother."

"He's not Henry, you freak," Sam bellowed. "You killed Henry."

"Henry never had a brother," Will repeated. "And Dean won't either."

www

tbc...


	3. Shape Shift

**Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors: **See Chapter 1

a/n: Thank you so much for your reviews and for reading! Co-writing is one of those learning experiences where you learn more about yourself than anything else, and we've both had a fantastic time weaving this story. If you're entertained, then we're happy. We hope you enjoy the ride...

_Off through the new day's mist I run  
Out from the new day's mist I have come  
I hunt  
Therefore I am_

www

Shape shift

Dean woke with a jerk at the sound of a slamming door, his heart thudding in his chest.

_Sammy… Where the hell…_

He knew Sam had just been there, just been talking with him… he'd told him… told him that he wasn't going without him… what had he… He tried to sit up and shuddered as a wave of nausea rolled over him. Shock waves of pain radiated across his chest and shoulder. The edges of his memory blurred. A dark path… a hot, slashing stab of pain… Sam sewing him up with a big-ass needle… Dad telling him to watch out for Sammy… Dad yelling at Sam to shoot him, _shoot me in the heart_…

Dean reached up a shaking hand and wiped at his blurry eyes, trying to pull the puzzle pieces of his memory together until he could see the whole picture. He could hear a voice. He knew this voice; he knew he should listen… He heard something scraping along the floor… heard things falling, crashing, breaking… He tried to push himself forward once more. The voice coming from somewhere beneath him finally filtered through his haze and he froze.

"Dean! …Will …not Henry!" Sam's voice sifted through his haze, his words muffled but laced with a shrill note of panic.

Dean couldn't make sense of what Sam was saying but he knew his brother, knew that he was in trouble by the pitch and tenor of his voice. He struggled to piece together the fragments of noise that jarred him into awareness.

_Will? Not Henry? _

Dean's thoughts moved like molasses in his sluggish brain. Who the hell was Sam talking about? He shifted forward, working to focus. _Aw fuck…_ his shoulder _was _pain. Just the small amount of movement shot fire through his body, making him weak, making him angry. He placed his palms flat at his sides and pressed upward, willing his body to respond. He could hear someone pounding on a door, could hear Sam yelling himself hoarse.

_Gotta' get to Sammy. _

Pain sliced through his chest as Dean pushed up off the couch. He raised his haunches several inches off the floral fabric before his uncooperative body faltered and he fell back, panting with effort. He knew if he could just _stand_ he could get to Sam. _C'mon, Winchester… get your ass Off. This. Couch. _Grunting with frustration he drew a shaky breath and resumed his attempt to rise. He failed.

His pulse throbbed at his temples and his skin felt stretched too tight across his bones. He squeezed his eyes shut, stuffing down the fire, fighting back the heat, willing the ache away, and opened them again only to find a familiar-looking man standing in the doorway of the living room and regarding him with keen interest. Dean pressed his fingers to his head, working to remember.

_Will? Will. Will Randall. Freaky farmer with the son who left him. Son who is a werewolf. Son… Henry. Henry who left him. And is a werewolf._

The man remained in the doorway, making no move to enter the room. He simply stood, staring at Dean with an odd glint in his eyes. Dean managed to lean forward using his elbows as leverage. As Dean moved, the man drew his eyebrows together and cocked his head to the side in a gesture that reminded Dean of a dog canting its head when it hears something of interest.

He felt the puzzle in his mind shift, swore he heard an audible click as the pieces paired up. _Not Henry... Will. _Sam's words swam in his consciousness and he felt the first stab of fear in his gut.

Dean cleared his throat and glanced longingly at the floor where his gun had lain moments earlier. "Uh, Will, it sounds like Sam needs some help, so…"

The grizzled old man took a step forward, something akin to madness flashing in his eyes. "I think he's just fine. Don't bother getting up," he added, a chuckle escaping from his throat.

Dean strained to rise up off the couch, his eyes never leaving Will's. He could still hear Sam pounding on the basement door, could hear the fear in his brother's voice as he yelled for Dean. _He's yelling and he's moving…at least the bastard didn't hurt him. Yet._

Sam's voice was still muffled but Dean, now on full alert, could just make out what he was saying. "Dean! Shit. Dean! Wake the hell up, man! _Will_ is the werewolf, _not_ Henry! Henry is dead! DEAN!"

At this, the expression of malicious amusement on Will's face altered. Dean saw something slip, saw something resembling sadness cross his countenance before the evil glint returned to his eyes.

"You bastard," Dean growled. "You killed him, didn't you?" His voice trembled with a helpless mixture of hatred and awe. "I shoulda known…"

_You save him… if you can't save him, you'll have to kill him…_

Will crossed the room in a breath, gripping Dean's shoulders roughly, causing Dean to stifle a cry of pain as hands strengthened by years of manual labor dug into the tender spaces of his fresh wounds. He lifted Dean off the couch until the two men were eye to eye. Sam's jacket fell to the ground and Will's fingers dug into Dean's bare shoulders.

_Least I'm standing now,_ Dean thought. _Long as I can stay that way…_

"You goddamn punk! Don't you pass judgment on me! You have _no_ idea how hard it was for me…" He paused as a shudder passed over his body, closing his eyes as if blocking out the truth. "…no idea what it was like to put a bullet in my own _son_."

"No, I guess I don't… Can't say as I could justify killing my own son…" Dean challenged, his voice gathering strength his body lacked. He cringed inwardly as Will's fingers bit into his tortured flesh, forced himself not to succumb to the darkness that danced in his periphery.

_Pass out now, Dean, and it's over._

Will began shaking violently, his face contorted with rage, features twisting until they were almost inhuman. Dean could hear Sam's continuous pounding on the basement door, his brother's voice, rough with fear and anger, calling out to him, calling out for some sort of reassurance.

"He wasn't my son anymore…he was a _monster!_ He killed that…that _man_," he spoke the last word as if it were a curse. "He was ready to leave me for him, and then I – I watched him kill him… slash him up, eat his _heart_…I couldn't stand to see him that way. I had to put him out of his misery…it's what he would've wanted."

"So you shot him," Dean continued, his voice edged with contempt.

"You're goddamn _right_ I did! That…that _thing_ wasn't Henry. Not anymore."

Will's pupils widened, his gaze, pinned to Dean, turning hungry. Dean flinched as sharp nails dug into the bare skin on his good shoulder.

_He's fucking wolfing out! Shit, Sammy! Why'd you have to take both guns?_

"You killed him, alright, but he turned you first, didn't he?" The naked fury on Will's face told Dean he was right. "And now what? You gonna' kill me, too, Will? You think that'll change anything?"

A twisted smile ghosted across Will's face. "Your… _brother_ already told me no one would even miss you. I can keep you here… keep Henry with me… teach you to hunt…" his lip curled, his teeth seeming to stretch, gleaming in the light from the window. "Besides," he raked his eyes contemptuously over Dean's trembling form. "It's not like you could stop me."

Dean fought back the grimace of pain that lanced through him as Will tightened his grip on Dean's shoulder. He refused to think about the fact that the only reason he was on his feet at all was that Will was holding him there and instead focused on the white-hot fury that flared inside of him at Will's look. _Nobody_ looked at him that way—not while they were _touching _him—and walked away.

Will glanced at the basement door. "And as for Sam…well, I guess I'll just have to keep him down there until the fight's gone out of him. Believe me, you'll get hungry pretty fast… He oughta do just fine…"

At the mention of Sam, Dean felt hot rage flare at the base of his skull. "You so much as say his name again and I swear to God I'll put _you _out of your misery, you pathetic old fuck."

"You're going to regret showing up at my door, son," Will snarled, his eyes going feral, the muscles in his shoulders appearing to grow before Dean's horrified eyes.

"I'm. Not. Your. Son," Dean spat out, reaching up with a weak, trembling grasp to clutch at Will's arms. "_Your _son is a bag of bones in the friggin' basement, you crazy sonuvabitch."

At this Will lost all semblance of humanity, flinging Dean back with a low growl. Dean stumbled, throwing out his left hand for balance, knowing his only chance for survival at this point was to remain on his feet. Mustering all of his remaining strength, Dean pivoted and brought an elbow down on Will's solar plexus, then followed with a knee to his groin.

Will bent at the waist, a low groan of pain rushing from his lips. Dean shoved the man away as hard as he could, grimacing as heat gripped his body. Will fell backwards, pulling the yellowed doilies from the dresser behind him. Framed pictures that had been on the top of the dresser fell to the ground, shattering and drawing Will's attention long enough for Dean to grab a metal table lamp next to the couch.

In the silence that followed the breaking glass, Dean realized Sam was yelling again. Something about the left arm. _What? Shit, Sam. Whose arm? What are you talking about?_

Will's head snapped back up, his eyes narrowed and hostile. Dean felt a chill raise the fine hairs on the back of his neck as Will opened his mouth and exposed a set of fully-extended razor-sharp fangs. Man was becoming wolf before Dean's eyes.

Suddenly it dawned on him. _Will's_ arm. Sam's bullet must've hit Will on the left arm when he'd been wolfed out in the forest. The long sleeved shirt Will wore kept the wound out of sight, but Dean knew it was there. He sent a silent _thank you_ to Sam and used his good arm to draw the lamp up and back.

Will rushed him before he could swing the lamp, and he felt the air leave his lungs in a painful burst as the older man's strong body slammed into his wounds. He cried out as he landed, hard, on his injured shoulder. His vision grayed out and all sound muted.

He was in a vacuum… no air, no light, no sound… no warning. _No._ No—he couldn't give in now. Dean grabbed a desperate breath. Sam was trapped and Will was turning into a werewolf in broad daylight. He would _not_ give in to this weakness, this pain…

_Goddammit, Dean… get on your feet. Get. Up. __**Now.**_

He rolled to the left just as Will swiped a clawed hand down where Dean's face had been. Gripping the lamp, Dean brought his foot up with a brutal kick to Will's still-human knee.

Will literally howled in pain and Dean rolled again, pushing himself up onto his knees. Before Will could react, Dean swung the lamp that was still gripped in his left hand sideways, colliding with Will's injured arm. Will crumpled to the ground with a whimper and Dean raised the lamp again, bringing it down with all of his remaining strength on Will's head, giving pause to the semi-wolfed-out man.

On his hands and knees, Dean panted, eyes searching desperately for something—_anything_—to help him. He heard Sam calling his name. He heard the rush of blood in his ears. He heard Will's harsh, canine-like gasps as the man worked to pull himself together and attack. A glint of silver just beneath the couch caught Dean's eye and he dove, coming up with his knife in his hand.

_So you did leave me __**something**__, Sammy. _

Twisting to his back as Will lunged at him again, Dean caught the man across the chest with the silver blade. Will reared back, a shrill cry of anguish ripping from his body. Dean jabbed at him again and Will stumbled backwards. To Dean's amazement, he saw real fear in Will's eyes. The man-creature wheeled and bolted from the room, ripping the kitchen screen door nearly off its hinges and sprinting outside toward the barn.

Dean's arms gave out, his back surrendered, and he collapsed face-first on the floor, his breath coming in shallow bursts, rivulets of blood traversing his shoulder and soaking through the gauze wrapped across his wounds. He was trembling, his fingers unable to keep hold of his knife, his vision sliding in and out of focus as he blinked his eyes slower… slower…

Sam's panicked bellow tore through the farmhouse.

"Dean! Did you get him? Are you okay? DEAN!"

Dean drew in a ragged breath. _I'm okay… Sam, I'm coming… just hang on…_

"DEAN!"

"M'okay… Sam," he breathed. He used his left arm and pushed himself over onto his back, trying to pull more air in, trying to punch up the volume in his voice. "I'm… okay… Sammy…"

Sam stopped yelling. Dean closed his eyes.

Dean felt the floor roll underneath him in a wave of hurt. He knew that he needed to get up, get to Sam, but he was afraid that if he moved, he'd drown in the wave. He was sweating, burning up, and so cold, so cold. He shivered, clenching his jaw against the slice of pain that echoed from his collar bone to his fingertips at that automatic motion.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice was far away… years away. He sounded so young. He was staring at Dean with eyes full of questions. He was smiling at Dean, asking for reassurance. He wanted Dad to come back. He wanted to go hunting with them. He wanted to know why Dad was crying. He wanted to know why they didn't have a mom. He wanted to stay close to Dean. He wanted to leave. He wanted to walk away. He wanted normal. He didn't want to fight anymore.

_Can we just… not fight? Sometimes I don't know what we're fighting about… we're just butting heads…_

"Dean? Is he gone?"

_He's gone, Sam. He's gone and it's my fault…_

"Dean. Answer me."

"He's gone…" Dean whispered. He heard Sam slam a fist against the door.

"DEAN! Answer me!"

"He's gone," Dean pushed out, arching his neck up, and blinking his eyes open. He focused on the slats of wood fitting together on the ceiling.

"Dean, I need you to come here."

"Gotta…just gotta rest a minute…"

"Dean. Get up. Now. Get over here," Sam's voice became hard. Became John's.

_Dean. Get up, help your brother. I need you. I need you to do this._

Dean blinked, forcing back the black, pulling the color into his vision. He willed clarity to return, willed himself to see the light in the room, willed himself to roll to his left side, push himself to his elbow.

"DEAN!"

"'M comin', Sammy," Dean said in a thin, barely discernable voice.

"Come over to the door, Dean," Sam called.

_Crawl if you can't walk… just get over to him. Do. Your. Job._

Dean rolled his eyes until he found the door. The credenza that had been the home of Will Randall's family portraits had been moved in front of the small door, pictures fallen flat on the top and shattered on the floor around it. Dean set his jaw, feeling sweat roll down his temples, gather at the base of his spine, feeling blood blossom hot and wet on his bandaged shoulder, drew his knees under him and pushed himself to all fours.

He pulled his right arm up against his wounded chest and crawled, slowly, toward the credenza. He heard Sam's voice beckoning him, calling him, begging him. He landed in a heap at the side of the credenza, his back to the side, his head tipped against the wood, his eyes closed.

"I'm here, Sam," he panted.

"What's blocking the door?"

"A d-dresser… thingy."

"I need you to push it out of the way, Dean," Sam's voice was less muffled this close up, but his request was no less impossible.

"Like hell."

"Dean, I can't get to it. I tried the cellar door – there's something blocking it, too."

"J-just use your… your psychic mojo thing."

"It doesn't work that way," Sam said softly.

"Did before," Dean argued, still not opening his eyes, his hands resting loosely in his lap, his legs splayed out before him.

"That's different," Sam resisted. "I thought you were going to die."

_Not that far off…_ Dean winced as a stab of pain decided now was a good time to shoot through and light up his chest.

"Dean?"

He wanted to reply. He really did… but his tongue was heavy. His lips were lead. He couldn't lift his eyelids. His body was on fire and freezing at the same time. Sweat ran down his face and froze as it dripped from his jaw line to his chest. He felt his right hand shaking against his leg. It moved as if it were desperate to get away, to escape. He wanted to escape. He wanted to leave. He didn't want to fight anymore. He wanted to take Sam and just go… just lay low. Just hide until he could figure out how to fix this. How to keep his brother safe. How to do his job. He was just so… damn… tired…

"…fade on me, Dean… please… I _need_ you, man… gotta get me… push… just move… _please_, Dean…"

_God, Sam… you don't get it. You don't get it. How can I make you see? How can I…_

"DEAN!"

"Yeah."

"Are your eyes open?"

"No."

"Open your eyes, Dean."

"'K."

"Tell me what you see."

"Front door."

"Open or closed?"

"Door or my eyes?"

"Door."

"Closed."

"Good. Are you sitting up?"

"Yeah."

"You bleeding?"

Dean shifted his eyes down to the bandages on his bare chest and shoulder.

"Yeah."

"Okay, listen," Sam's voice shifted.

Dean could hear the deep cut of worry laced through the command. He heard Sam's voice shift from John's commanding tone to his own easy roll, teasing up obedience when orders were too hard to follow.

"You need to dig your heels in… just dig them in and push that… that dresser thing out of the way… just push it a little bit, Dean, and I'll get it the rest of the way"

_Just do it, Dean… just get a little dresser out of the way… just push it a little bit… do it...__** do it, goddammit**__…_

His internal drill sergeant finished the job that Sam's pleading began. Closing his eyes, Dean dug his heels into the wooden floor and with his back planted firmly against the side of the credenza he started to move it away from the small basement door. He clamped his teeth down tight on a groan of pain, turning it into a growl of effort.

"There you go – that's it, Dean."

"Shut up, Sam," he snapped through clenched teeth. "You're not helping."

"Sorry."

The furniture moved in short, shifting jerks, each motion sending a fresh wave of pain through Dean's wounds until sweat ran down his face and bare chest, collecting at the waistband of his jeans. He was panting, trembling, but he'd moved the damn thing.

"T-there… there Sam," he croaked when he reached the hinges of the small door.

He heard Sam try the handle.

"It's locked, Dean."

"Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me," Dean breathed.

"Are you still in front of it?"

"Yeah." Dean used his left arm, pushing himself slowly away from the credenza. He managed to move around to the front of the furniture, away from blast zone. "Go for it, Sam."

He actually heard Sam pull in a breath as he slammed his foot against the door, directly at the handle. The small door burst open, the latch and handle flying across the room, and as Sam stumbled out in a curled run, Dean caught the distinct smell of decay coming with him.

"So," Dean croaked. "You f-found Henry, huh?"

Sam turned quickly to his left, then whirled to his right, looking for Dean.

"Jesus Christ." He crouched down in front of his brother.

"Nope," Dean quipped, blinking sweat from his lashes. "Just me."

"You're bleeding again," Sam curled his lips into a grimace. "Not bad, but… not like you can afford to—what the hell are these?"

Sam's gentle fingers found the nail marks on Dean's left shoulder.

"Will," Dean licked his lips. "Dude was wolfing out."

"While you were _fighting_ him?"

"Yep," Dean nodded, closing his eyes. He was so _tired_.

"Your fever's up," Sam grumbled, the palm of his hand moving from Dean's forehead to his cheek.

"What are you mad at me for?" Dean opened one eye, taking in Sam's scowl.

"I'm not," Sam blinked. "I'm pissed as hell at Will Randall, though."

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah."

Sam was on his feet, looking toward the back door. Dean knew that he was seeing the screen hanging from its hinges.

"It strike you as funny, this guy's got the same name as Jack Nicholson?"

Sam looked back down at his brother. "Huh?"

"In the movie."

"You're delirious."

"Am not."

"We have to get out of here," Sam leaned over and grasped Dean by the left arm, pulling him carefully to his feet.

"No," Dean said through clenched teeth.

"Yes, Dean," Sam nodded. "You need help."

"We have to finish this, Sam," Dean grabbed Sam's upper arm with his left hand, capturing his brother's attention, balancing himself with the grip.

"What? An hour ago you wanted to bail—"

"That's different."

"Why?"

"Because, Sam, you were going in that basement…" Dean swallowed, swaying in Sam's grip. "And I couldn't go with you… but, man, Will… he was gonna… he wanted to…" He blinked at Sam, twisting his fingers in Sam's T-shirt. "We can't leave this. I-if it's not me… it's gonna be someone else… h-he's gonna try to turn someone else."

"You're barely on your feet, man. I gotta get you out of here."

"Sam, stop." Dean resisted Sam's motion toward the door. "Just _stop._"

Sam looked at him, his eyes wide, pleading, confused.

Dean took a breath. "This is it, man. This is why we do what we do. Stop people from getting hurt. Getting killed. Hunting evil, right?"

Sam nodded slowly.

"Something out there turned Henry and because of that, one life is ruined and eight people are dead," Dean licked his dry lips, shifting his eyes to the side. "We lost Mom and Dad… you lost Jess… we know loss, Sam."

"What are you trying to say?"

Dean looked back at his brother. "We hunt these things so that people don't have to feel like we feel. So that it… it all _means_ something."

_So that my life means something…_

Sam stared at him carefully, his eyes softening, somehow hearing what Dean couldn't say. _Dad's dead because of me…_ Sam pulled his bottom lip in, nodding. He started to release Dean's arm, but realized that his grip was pretty much the only thing at the moment that was keeping Dean on his feet. The bandages that he'd managed to wrap around Dean's chest and shoulder were pink with blood, his brother's chest was slick with sweat, and the hand that wasn't gripping his arm was held tight to Dean's abdomen. Sam could see the tremble in Dean's fingers.

"Okay," Sam said. "We do this job. But then we get you to a hospital."

"And get tires for the Impala," Dean said, allowing Sam to move him away from the credenza and toward one of the high-backed chairs in the living room.

Sam shook his head. "We'll worry about the car later."

"Sam," Dean looked up at him as Sam stepped away. "Promise me."

"Promise you what?"

"That you'll take care of her—don't leave her on the side of the road like that. She deserves better."

_As long as there's one working part we're not gonna just give up on…_

"I promise," Sam said softly. "But you're gonna be the one to do it." He forced a grin. "I mean, what if I got the wrong tires or something?"

Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam. "Don't even kid about that shit."

Sam smiled, then straightened up. They needed to move quickly—not just to be ready to battle a werewolf. Sam could see that Dean was fading. His eyes were fever-bright, and he was resisting the pain, but even Dean was human. He couldn't fight for much longer.

Sam rubbed his hand over his face. "We gotta… I don't know…"

"Build a fort," Dean said suddenly.

Sam looked over at him, surprised. "Come again?"

"Like when we were kids," Dean said, his green eyes darting around the room, searching.

"When did we ever build forts as kids?"

"Snow forts count," Dean said, pushing himself to his feet.

Sam saw him shiver and moved over to pick up his blood-stained jacket from where it had been discarded in the struggle between Will and Dean. He put it around Dean's shoulders and helped him slide his left arm through the sleeve, not touching the right arm that Dean kept close to his chest. Dean nodded his thanks distractedly as he stepped up to the dresser.

"You see any hammers and nails when you were pillaging the house?"

"Yeah," Sam nodded, still at a loss as to how snow forts they built when they were kids were going to help them fight off a werewolf that could turn in the light of the sun.

"How long you think we got?" Dean asked, looking at Sam over his shoulder.

"Until what?"

"Until Randall comes back."

"How the hell should I know?"

"I say we got a couple hours." Dean looked back toward the dresser. "He's gonna wait until I'm too weak to fight him off and you've gone a little nuts trapped in that basement."

Sam nodded, starting to follow the crooked path that Dean's logic always traveled.

"How many rounds we got left?" Dean asked.

Sam pulled out the .45 and checked the clip. "Seven here," he said, then pulled out his Glock. "Nine here."

Dean looked at him, turning slowly and leaning back against the dresser. "Why the hell didn't you just shoot through the door?"

"Huh?"

"When you were in the basement?"

Sam looked down, then away. _Hadn't thought about that…_ "Hey, you're Mr. Shoot First, Ask Questions Later, not me."

Dean shook his head, dismissing Sam with a lazy wave of his left hand. "Okay, so we have to barricade the house, hole up someplace where we can fight him off."

"Hole up where?"

"Dunno… upstairs maybe?"

"Yeah, okay, that makes sense," Sam nodded, looking around. "Don't think wolves can climb walls. Even though… well, if he does get in, it kinda traps us…" Sam met Dean's eyes. He saw the tremor shift through his brother. They'd just have to not let themselves get backed into a corner. "Got any silver besides the bullets?"

Dean nodded at his knife on the floor. Sam picked it up and carefully tucked it into his waistband. They looked around the shattered living room. Even the picture frames were wood. Sam brought his head up and met Dean's eyes.

"Kitchen," they said at the same time.

Moving slowly, Sam helped Dean into the kitchen, leaning Dean against the kitchen doorway to search the room. As Sam dug through the silverware drawer, Dean shook his head.

"Think like a woman for a sec, Sam," Dean said, his eyes tracking across the cabinets fixed to the wall above the sink.

"Okay, now you're scaring me."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Women are always putting things up and away, like inside china cabinets… or in big ol' boxes… or…"

"Right," Sam nodded, catching on. "And Randall's wife, May, probably put the good silver up for special occasions…" Sam started opening the upper cabinets until he came across a large wooden box.

"Yahtzee," they muttered together.

Sam tossed a quick grin at Dean, then pulled out several of the tarnished, ornate silver knives and forks from the box. He handed several to Dean who stuffed them in the pockets of the jacket. Leaving Dean leaning against the kitchen doorway, Sam went down the hall to the mudroom where he'd seen the hammer and nails, grabbed them and returned.

"What are we going to use for—"

"Dresser," Dean said, wiping the back of his hand across his upper lip. He could feel the trembling of his hands growing, creeping downward and weakening his legs. _Not yet… not yet…_

"Dean?"

"'M fine, Sam," Dean nodded. "Let's get it done."

Sam moved into the living room and Dean followed, leaning heavily against the wall. With a heave, Sam slammed the dresser sideways to the floor, breaking the top off of it. He pulled the drawers free, holding them with one hand and shoving his foot into them to break them up into long pieces. He did the same with the sides and back of the dresser.

When he was done, he was panting, his T-shirt sticking to his back and stomach in patches. He flicked sweaty hair out of his eyes and looked over his shoulder at Dean. His brother nodded at him with a fragile grin. Sam handed Dean the nails and gathered up pieces of the wood.

"You know," Sam said as he started to drive in the nails that Dean handed him, blocking the front entrance. "This isn't going to stop him from getting in if he really wants to."

"It'll slow him down," Dean said, his voice sounding weak in his own ears.

Sam glanced at him. Dean pulled away from the wall, working to stand on his own, to show Sam he was with him in this fight. He lasted about thirty seconds before he had to lean against the wall or risk falling over.

"Too bad we can't just put down lines of salt," Sam muttered, moving on to the next opening – a window. "You know how often I've wished that salt repelled more than spirits?"

"Yeah, that would make this whole job a lot easier," Dean nodded, following Sam, handing him nails, hating that he couldn't do more. This was going to take twice as long with only one person doing it. "We could just buy a lifetime supply of rock salt."

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You remember _not_ knowing that salt repels spirits?"

"You mean like… before?"

"Yeah."

Dean thought for a moment as Sam moved on to the back door, all windows boarded up.

"Not really," Dean admitted. "I mean, I know that there was almost five years there when life was just… y'know regular. Sesame Street and tricycles. But… I can't really… remember it."

"Me neither," Sam said softly, driving in the last nail, and turning around. The house had taken on a deserted feeling, the light from the sun blocked by the pieces of wood, dusty beams filtering in and dying in the shadows.

"You never had regular, Sam," Dean said, sinking slowly down on the stairs as he waited for Sam. The trembling in his legs was starting to make it impossible to stay upright. He reached up to grip the banister of the stairway as the house seemed to lurch around him in a slow, dizzy spin.

"Wasn't for lack of trying, though," Sam muttered, grabbing some water. "You tried."

"Dad tried," Dean corrected.

"Yeah, well," Sam glanced at Dean. "I remember you."

Dean offered his brother what he thought was a reassuring grin, realizing as Sam's face paled that he'd failed in his attempt.

"Dean?"

"You never w-wanted a tricycle," Dean said, licking his dry lips, and trying to keep the conversation going. _Keep talking and it won't get you… keep moving and you stay ahead of it…_

Sam handed Dean the water, watching closely as his brother drank.

"I didn't?"

Dean handed the water back, shaking his head. "You wanted a soccer ball."

"I liked soccer," Sam set the glass down and grabbed Dean under the left arm, pulling him to his feet. "Still do." He grimaced at the heat he could feel coming from Dean, even through his jacket.

Dean bit back a groan as he straightened, the make-shift stitches pulling at his swollen, tortured skin. Sam felt him stiffen and carefully slipped his arm across Dean's back, grasping him at the waist and steadying him. He felt a stab of real fear when Dean actually leaned on him. It was like suddenly seeing a person where he'd always seen a superhero.

"Y-you just wanted the opposite of what Dad gave you," Dean panted.

"Ready?" Sam asked as they faced the stairs.

Dean nodded, continuing his thought. "Dad shoulda _made_ you play s-soccer… then you woulda _wanted_ to learn to bow hunt."

"I can guarantee you I would have never wanted to learn to bow hunt," Sam said, shifting as more of Dean's weight came his way.

"Came in handy when, ah—" Dean paused, closing his eyes as his right arm jostled against the stairway wall.

"Take it easy, Dean."

"When we met up with Kate and Luther and their gang," Dean panted.

"Well, you and Dad were there to save my ass," Sam said, glancing over his shoulder at what sounded like… clicking. Had he missed an opening? "Besides, the crossbow was only good for the dead man's blood. Who knew you had to decapitate a vampire?"

Dean huffed out a weak laugh, the toe of his boot scuffing as he climbed up the next step. "Just goes to show you can't trust what you learn from TV."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, Buffy just staked them and poof."

"Sure glad we f-found out about vamps with D-Dad before…" Dean sagged against Sam, the blood loss and pain taking their toll. "B-before Gordon," he finished weakly.

"Hey… hey, Dean," Sam shook him gently, struggling to hold him upright with a cast on his hand and not touch Dean's wounds any more than necessary. "Dude, just stay with me a little longer, okay?"

Dean pushed against Sam, working to shift himself upright. "Not going anywhere," he said, his voice soft.

"Good," Sam nodded as they reached the top of the stairs.

Dean lifted his head, his eyes heavy. There were three doors on the second floor, two on either side of the hall at the top of the stairs, one behind them. Sam helped Dean around the corner of the banister at the top of the stairs, leaning him against the wall next to one of the doors so that he faced the side of the stairway.

"Wait here a sec," he ordered, then tried the first door. It opened into what was obviously Will's bedroom. Sam glanced around quickly, then closed the door. He turned around and tried the second door. It was locked.

"Bet you a pizza that's Henry's room," Dean said.

Sam glanced over at the thin sound of Dean's voice. He was still on his feet, but his head was tipped back against the wall and he was watching Sam out of the bottoms of his eyes. Sweat glistened on his face and streaked his hair, making it appear darker than normal.

_I gotta get you out of here…_

"Not until we get this guy," Dean said, blinking.

"Sorry, I—" Sam said as he moved passed Dean to the last door at the opposite end of the hall. "I didn't think I said that out loud."

"You didn't," Dean replied. "That's why you leave the hustling to me, Sammy."

Sam shook his head, turning the knob. Dean had always been able to read him better than anyone. It was Dean who had finally gotten him that damn soccer ball when he was younger. Said he 'found' it – at the time, Sam hadn't cared. He'd gotten what he wanted; it didn't matter how. John had been content to let Sam have the ball, play whenever he wanted, as long as he'd done his homework and had been home and ready to help them get ready for hunts when needed.

He glanced into the third room, basically empty except for a half-clothed dress mannequin, sewing machine, dresser, and three bolts of blue fabric. Turning to look at his wounded brother, Sam wondered now how Dean had acquired the things that had given Sam a childhood—things that John hadn't known about, or hadn't thought were necessary. Dean had just made things happen when they were growing up. He just made things happen now. _Long as I'm around, nothing bad's gonna happen to you…_

"This is as good a place as any, Dean."

"'K," Dean pushed away from the wall, and started forward. He managed to get to the middle of the banister, half-way to Sam, when he heard the growl. He shot his eyes to Sam. _How the hell—_

He wasn't given time to finish the thought. The wolf launched directly up from the staircase, its muscle slamming into the banister, lunging at Dean through the wooden spindles. The banister broke under the creature's weight, hitting Dean at the waist, sending him back into the wall hard enough to turn his vision white as the stitches in his shoulder pulled. He felt several of them pop loose as he slid down the wall.

"Arrhhh!" Dean yelled in pain and helpless rage.

The blast of the .45 in the close quarters of the stairwell shook him and his vision returned in a rush. Sam stood at the opposite end of the hall, .45 aimed at the wolf, his casted hand supporting his firing hand. The werewolf yelped and jerked, but instead of falling back down the stairs, it fell forward, on top of the shattered banister—on top of Dean.

Dean dug his hand into his jacket pocket and gripped two of the silver forks, pulling them out and with a growl of his own, drove the poisonous metal into the soft, fleshy throat of the creature.

"You sonuvabitch," he gasped as the wolf yelped and tried to pull back and away, its legs tangled in the spindles of the banister.

Dean pulled the bloody forks out and reared his arm back, fueled with an energy born in a fire of loss. As the deadly teeth snapped close to his own neck, he brought the forks down on the wolf's eye just as two more shots echoed through the house and the wolf shook from the impact of the bullets and blood from the stab wounds sprayed Dean's face and chest.

Finally able to untangle its legs, the wolf tumbled backwards down on the stairs. Its howl bouncing off the walls, shaking the windows as Sam pushed the broken banister away from his brother and down on top of the creature. He grabbed Dean's left arm, literally dragging him down the short distance of the hall and into the third room.

"Won't let you get me, you _freak_!"

Dean's defiant yell was punched through with gasps of breath and he lay where Sam dropped him on the inside of the door. He was visibly shaking now, his vision hazy and swiftly losing focus. But he was breathing. He was alive. _Damn dog… won't let you turn me…_

"Dean?" Sam was leaning against the door, panting.

"Block that friggin' door, Sam," Dean panted back, unable to lift his eyes.

Sam scrambled, using his legs, arms, body to move the dresser in front of the door. He tipped it over, setting it on its side so that it blocked a wider section of the door. Then he turned back and grabbed the sewing machine.

"Guuuhhh," Sam breathed out through clenched teeth as he lifted the heavy piece of machinery and set it on top of the dresser.

Just as he finished, the door shook as what was presumably the wolf's body slammed against it. Sam stumbled backwards, staring in fear at the shaking wood. He dropped his eyes to his shaking brother, lying in a heap next to the dresser. He stepped over to Dean and lifted his arm over his shoulders, wrapping a long arm around Dean's waist. As he lifted Dean to his feet, Sam ignored the weak whimper that escaped Dean's lips.

"Aw, Christ, Sam," Dean panted.

"Just lemme… lemme get you over to the other side…"

"Don't you let it get you," Dean's head dropped heavily, his chin nearly to his chest as Sam dragged him across the room and set him down gently in the corner, propping him upright against the wall.

"I'm not gonna let it get either of us," Sam said, crouching down in front of Dean, gripping his brother's chin in his hand and tipping his head back. "Look at me. _Look_ at me, Dean."

Dean forced his eyes open. Sam savored the surge of relief that sped up his heart at the sight of his brother's green eyes. The skin under Sam's hand was hot, but Dean's eyes were open and he was focused on him.

"I'm not gonna let it get either of us, okay?"

The door shook again, and Sam flinched.

"Damn right you're not," Dean whispered. "Know why?"

"'Cause I'm a soccer-playing geekboy sidekick?" Sam pulled the corner of his mouth into a cocky grin, ignoring the wet snarl and canine-like barks that warned of an impending foundation-shaking body slam.

"'Cause you're a hunter, Sam," Dean said, licking his lips, his eyes drooping once. "And you're my brother."

Sam felt the surge in his heart pull through him once more in a stab of pride mingled chaotically with sorrow. Dean's eyes fluttered, closed, his breathing turning shallow.

"Dean?" Sam almost whimpered as another slam shook the barricade.

He had yet to turn back and look. If the wolf got through he was ready to tear it up, rip its throat out. The damn thing had shredded Dean's chest with one swipe. Sam wanted to pull it apart.

"Dean, hey," Sam patted Dean's cheek. _Don't leave me alone here, man._

"Sam?"

"You still with me?"

"I'm here," Dean lifted his eyebrows high, pulling his lids with them. The wolf howled on the other side of the barricade. "Fuckin' thing won't give up," Dean muttered.

"I know."

Dean rolled his eyes to one of the two floor-to-ceiling windows flanking the room. "Sun's going down."

"I know," Sam kept his hand on Dean's cheek, his cast supporting his crouched position.

"Any other situation," Dean swallowed, blinking. "That might worry me."

"Yeah," Sam nodded. The wolf slammed again. "Sun used to be our friend."

"We don't have any friends, Sam," Dean whispered.

Sam narrowed his eyes. "That's not true, man."

"No one even knows…" Dean's gaze drifted behind Sam. "No one even knows we're here."

"We have friends, Dean," Sam insisted. "People would know if we were away too long. Bobby, Ellen… Jo—"

"We're not always gonna be there, Sam," Dean interrupted, his eyes dropping, then lifting to meet Sam's.

"What do you mean?"

"Dad and me," Dean said. "Well… me. You gotta be able to… to bow hunt."

"Don't try to talk, Dean," Sam released Dean's face, pulling the jacket back to check the blood on Dean's shoulder.

Dean looked down, seeing the growing red stain on the white bandages. He was floating, riding a tide of pain and weakness. His legs rippled, his arms shifted, his vision followed. He wanted to stay here, stay present, but he was so tired… and the wave brought moments of actual relief. The icy fire that shook him stilled when the wave crested and he held on to that delicious sensation. He was tired of hurting… but a part of him knew that he couldn't roll into the wave… the part that screamed inside of him day and night, the part that was his father's voice, the voice he used to drive him through life… _that_ part resisted the wave, rejected the relief, denied the darkness.

_I want you to watch out for Sammy… you save him, Dean… if you don't save him, you have to kill him…_

"He shot his son," Dean whispered, reaching up to grab the sleeve of Sam's T-shirt.

"Shhh… take it easy."

Dean shook his head. "He shot his son to stop the monster."

"I know, man."

"He loved him, Sam. I mean… right?"

"Yeah, Dean." Sam nodded, rubbing the top of Dean's head softly, knowing that now was the only time Dean would allow such a gesture. Now, when he was visibly shifting between awareness and oblivion, between the present and the past. Now, when physical weakness exposed gaps in the masks that usually hid Dean's heart from the world. "He loved him. We both saw that."

"You think… if we'd gotten here sooner… you think we could have stopped him?"

"Before Henry turned him, you mean?"

Dean closed his eyes and nodded.

"We would have done our job, Dean," Sam said softly. "Whoever that meant saving, whatever that meant killing."

"It's what we do," Dean whispered.

"Yeah, it's what we do. We stop evil."

"No matter what?" Dean opened his eyes and looked hard at Sam. "You think we gotta do our jobs… no matter what?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Well… what about… Lenore," Dean asked. "She was a vampire."

"She wasn't evil, though, Dean."

"How will we know," Dean whispered, lines of pain gathering around his eyes. "How will we know, Sam? What if… what if we think… what if we're wrong?"

"We'll know. Dean, we'll know," Sam brushed away a drop of sweat that ran down his brother's face. "Take it easy, okay?"

Dean's eyes rolled closed for a moment. "He never told me why…" he muttered.

"What?"

Dean was still.

"Dean?"

Dean's eyes suddenly popped open. He looked over Sam's shoulder at the door. Sam stiffened and turned, expecting for all the world to see the looming figure of the monster-werewolf standing there. The room was empty. The door silent.

And then it hit him. The door was silent. Still.

"What the hell…" Sam stood, approaching the door.

"Sam," Dean leaned forward. "Don't you freakin' think about it."

"Dean, what if—"

"I'm telling you, man," Dean dropped weakly back against the wall, unable to push himself after Sam. "I got a bad feeling about this."

Sam licked his lips, looking back at his brother. He bent down, pulled out the Bowie knife, wrapped Dean's fingers around the hilt, then grabbed both the .45 and the Glock, flicking off the safeties on each. He stood, his back to the windows, glancing to the side at Dean. His fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of the knife, Dean nodded at him.

Sam carefully balanced the .45 in his right hand as best he could with the cast, then pointed both barrels toward the door, waiting. He was ready for the wolf to charge, ready for the barricade to scatter, ready to pour silver into the beast until it stopped twitching.

He wasn't ready to hear the sound of shattering glass.

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Hang in there! If all goes well, the final chapter will be posted this Friday.


	4. Earth's Gift

**Disclaimer/Spoilers/Authors: **See Chapter 1

a/n: Thanks so much for reading and reviewing!

_Nose to the wind  
Feeling I have been  
All senses clean  
Back to the meaning, back to the meaning of wolf and man…_

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Earth's gift

The window behind Sam's braced form shattered, shards of glass raining down as he whirled to meet the attack. He caught a flash of teeth and claws, yellow eyes filled with purposeful rage as the massive werewolf hurtled into the bedroom, shredding the wooden frame. Before Sam could take a shot, the creature's weight thundered into him, plowing him onto the floor. Both guns flew from his hands as he landed, hard, on his back, his breath rushing from him on impact. Sound, image, feeling all faded and Sam was sinking… sinking…

"SAM!"

Dean's voice hammered through his fog and he gasped for air as the world pulled together, rolling quickly to his left to avoid the set of claws determined to flay him. He pulled his elbow back, fast, catching the wolf across the muzzle and causing it to stagger and growl.

"Watch the damn teeth, Sammy!" Dean bellowed.

Dean gripped the handle of the Bowie knife, his eyes pinned to his brother's struggling form. He saw his .45 laying several agonizing feet away and gritted his teeth. _Get the gun… gotta get the gun…_ Panic frayed the edges of his consciousness. His eyes never left Sam, something telling him that if he looked away, even for an instant, it would be over. _Come on, move your ass, Winchester._

The werewolf seemed to pause as he stood over Sam. As he reached back blindly, struggling to grasp a weapon—any weapon—Sam could smell the beast's fetid breath, could see the threads of deadly saliva that dripped from his jagged fangs. As if it had all the time in the world, the creature reared and opened its mouth in a cruel sneer. Sam had the impression the beast was smiling, its gaze mocking and hate-filled.

Dean panted, cursing his uncooperative muscles. He tried to will himself forward, tried to summon some vestige of strength that might propel him toward the gun. Watching in horror, he saw the beast rear back, saw the murderous glint in its eyes, and in that moment he knew it meant to finish Sam… get him out of the way before focusing on Dean… before turning him.

_I won't let you get us…_ Reacting instinctively, Dean gripped the only weapon at his disposal: the silver blade. With a haunted, guttural yell he drew back his arm and hurled the knife directly at the werewolf's chest. The silver found its mark and the creature screamed in pain, stumbling backwards. Utterly spent, Dean collapsed, his body finally reaching its breaking point.

Taking swift advantage of the distraction, Sam clambered onto his side and snatched up the Glock. _Nine rounds…_ His hunter's instincts triggered that reminder and as the beast reeled from Dean's blade, Sam fired directly at the beast's chest, again and again, his lips curling into a snarl. _Four, five, six… _Sam sat up as the creature retreated, keeping his gun trained on the beast's chest. Round after round of silver caught the werewolf and it staggered backward with a roar of pain and rage, tipping and careening out of the open space that had once been a window.

The monster landed on its back on the wide, sloped roof, flailing wildly and trying in vain to gain a claw hold. _Eight, nine… _Sam fired until the hammer hit on an empty chamber, and watched as the werewolf slipped and gave a surprised yelp before plummeting to the ground below.

Dropping the empty Glock and scooping up Dean's .45, Sam stood and trained the weapon on the opening, taking a few hesitant steps toward the window. His breath coming in harsh bursts, he braced himself against the wall and leaned out over the roof, noting the deep gouges on the sloped surface and peered down at the crumpled body below. Sam stared for a full minute, not trusting gravity to have done its part to destroy such evil.

As he watched with a mixture of horror and amazement, the figure on the ground began to change from wolf to man. Will Randall now lay below him in a twisted tangle of limbs, Dean's knife protruding from his chest. Finally satisfied by the grotesque angle of Will's head in relation to his body, Sam lowered his shoulders, dropping the .45, and turned his focus towards Dean.

"It's over, Dean. He's dead."

Dean tipped his head forward in response and a ghost of a smile flitted across his pale features before his eyes rolled back and his head slumped to the side. Sam was across the room and kneeling next to his brother in an instant, worry creasing his brow.

"Dean? Answer me, man. Come on, Dean, wake up." Sam cupped Dean's head in his hands. _Dammit, Dean. Stay with me._

Dean remained unresponsive, freckles standing out against the ivory of his skin like warning signs, smudges of purple lining his eyes. As he rested the palm of his hand against Dean's warm cheek, flashes of memory assaulted Sam. _A hospital… a ouiji board… just starting to be brothers again… you said a Reaper was after me… how did I beat it? _Once again Dean was cheating death.How many times could Dean teeter on the brink without falling over the edge?

Sam forced himself out of his reverie and into the moment at hand. Will might be dead but they still needed to get the hell out of Dodge. Dean needed medical attention, and fast.

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Sam went over to the bedroom door, his boots crunching on the shattered glass that covered the floor. He shoved the sewing machine away from the door with a grunt of effort, and using his legs when his arms started to tremble, he moved the dresser just enough away from the door that he could open it. He peered out into the demolished hallway; the door was lacerated with claw marks, the floor gouged deep with the same. Broken pieces of the stairway banister were strewn across the hall and down the stairs.

He looked back over at Dean. His brother's eyes were closed, and other than his rapid breathing, he was utterly still. Sam knew he was going to have to carry him out of there.

"At least it's _down_ the stairs and not _up_ 'em," he muttered as he braced himself to pick up Dean's limp body.

For what felt like the millionth time that day, Sam cursed the cast that made any physical activity more difficult. His body ached from his encounters with the werewolf, his shoulder throbbed from where he'd thrown himself repeatedly against the basement door. He shoved the empty Glock into Dean's jacket pocket and the .45 into the back of his waistband.

Grunting with exertion, he lifted Dean into a slumped sitting position, then tucked his shoulder into Dean's middle. Grasping Dean's left wrist once more he groaned aloud as he shifted the dead weight of his brother over his shoulder, muscles rebelling against their burden. Knowing there was no other way, Sam summoned the last reserves of his will and made his way out of the bedroom, stepping over the broken banister, and walked slowly down the stairs, pausing every few steps to catch his breath and gather his strength.

When he reached the foot of the stairs, the permeating stench of decay and death assaulted his nose and he glanced instinctively to his right at the basement door. It stood wide open. _Shit! I can't believe I missed that one, _Sam thought, cursing his oversight. Will must have gotten back into the house to attack them through the basement. _But… how the hell did Will get __**into**__ the basement? _

Easing Dean down from his shoulder to lay on the ground at the base of the stairs, Sam grabbed the hammer he'd discarded in the corner of the room earlier and went to work pulling the protective planks of wood from the front door. Grunting with exertion, he pried the wood away, glancing every few seconds over to Dean's too-still form. Dean still was just… wrong. He was always moving, talking, singing, eating… he _was_ energy. He was life.

Sam panted with exhaustion as the last board remained stubbornly in place. He rested his forearm against the doorframe, then dropped his sweaty forehead onto his arm. Voices echoed in his head like forgotten pieces of a vision. _Look, maybe you're imagining a hunt where there isn't one so you don't have to think about Mom or Dad… I was right about the zombie. I'm right about this… You bastard… you can't just…say that… you can't… Dad, don't… don't… I don't want to hear it… You think we gotta do our jobs… no matter what?_

Swallowing a sudden rush of nausea from the violent swirl of unanswered questions, Sam pushed himself away from the doorway and attacked the last stubborn board with vengeance. It came free and he threw it behind him with a growl. Turning back to Dean, he shifted his brother forward, wrapping his arms around Dean's middle and dragged him outside, propping him carefully against the house.

He looked over to the crumpled, naked form of Will Randall. Under circumstances that passed for normal in the Winchesters' world, Sam would've immediately burned the body. This time, however, his brother was hurt. And that took precedence over a werewolf corpse. He jogged quickly over to the body, grimacing as he wrapped his fingers around the hilt of Dean's Bowie knife and pulled it free from Will's chest with a sick-sounding wet pop. As he stood, he caught sight of the cellar door.

The double doors leading to the cellar lay on the ground, ripped clean from their hinges. The heavy beam that had been across the doors, bracing them shut, was several feet across the yard, away from the house. Sam shook his head in wonder. _That bastard just wouldn't give up._ He let his eyes trail up the marks and gouges in the wood along an ivy-covered latticework trellis. The marks led from the destroyed cellar door to the sloped roof just under the shattered window.

"He told you that you wouldn't get him," Sam whispered, sparing a final glance as the body of Will Randall.

Wiping the blade of the knife clean on the side of his jeans, Sam ran back to the house._ Now what? How the hell am I supposed to get Dean to town? _Sam recalled Will's mention of a barn. He mopped sweat from his brow with his forearm and glanced down at Dean. _It's worth a try…_

Sliding the knife into his back pocket, he bent down and retrieved the flashlight from Dean's jacket pocket, briefly touched his brother's face, then sprinted around the back of the house to the large, red structure. He didn't know what he hoped to find there. A tractor? Tires? A stretch limo with a driver waiting to take them to the nearest hospital?

He slid to a stop in front of the barn doors. He looked back toward the house, remembering Dean's slumped form. Turning his attention back at the barn, he swallowed, shooting a helpless prayer skyward. _Come on, give me something here. _He gave the door handle a jerk and tugged until it slid open. He flicked the flashlight on, its weak beam barely penetrating the murkiness of the interior.

Taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit barn, Sam stepped backwards as a horrific stench reached his nostrils. _What the…? _He covered his nose with the back of his right hand and reached back to his waistband to grip the gun with his left.

He moved forward, his steps cautious and measured. Gagging, he almost regretted the fact that his eyes_ had _adjusted to the gloom as the source of the smell became obvious. Animals in various stages of decay were pinned to the walls of the barn, strewn across the floor, slung over sawhorses. It was a veritable carnivorous smorgasbord. _Guess ole Will __**did **__try to fight his urges… at least for awhile. _

For a moment Sam was so distracted by the gore that surrounded him, he failed to notice the rusting baby blue pick-up truck hulking in the corner of the barn. When he did, his eyes widened in shock.

"Son of a _bitch_!" He cried out, hearing his brother in his voice.

Sam stared at the old truck, his fury building. The whole time. The _whole time_ there had been a way out. A way for Dean to get to help. Sam gripped the cold metal handle of the cab door, standing amidst the gory tableau of the barn, and stared. Simply stared at the pale blue interior, the hard metal steering wheel, the AM radio, the floor stick shift… and the wires hanging down from under the steering column.

Dean's broken plea echoed in his ears. _We can't leave this. I-if it's not me… it's gonna be someone else… h-he's gonna try to turn someone else_… Will wanted Dean for his own the minute they'd knocked on his door. The minute he'd seen his son standing there and not Dean. Sam felt sick. He'd gotten them into this mess. Sure, Dean had been willing, had seen the hunt the same time he had… _Doesn't matter, I pushed him, this is my fault…_

He'd gotten them into this mess, and he was damn sure gonna get them out. He stared at the wires hanging beneath the dash.

"Okay, so… no keys… but maybe I could…"

Sam leaned in, separating the four wires in his fingers. Resting the flashlight on the seat and pulling the wires further from beneath the steering column, Sam grabbed Dean's knife from his back pocket and stripped the plastic sheath from the wires. He snapped them together, hoping for a spark. Nothing.

"Too many damn wires," he grumbled. "How old is this freakin' truck?"

_Who am I kidding…_ He knew how to hotwire some cars, but this… this was beyond him. He needed Dean.

Sam sprinted back to the house, crouching in front of Dean's slumped, inert form.

"Hey," he said softly, tapping Dean's cheek. Dean's dark lashes fluttered once, but he didn't wake. "Hey, Dean… open your eyes, man."

Dean frowned but didn't open his eyes.

"Dean, I just need you to hang in there a little longer… open your eyes…" Sam rubbed the top of Dean's head lightly, then turned Dean's face toward him.

Sam blinked his eyes, wiping at the sweat that ran into his eyes. Pulling the jacket away from Dean's shoulder, Sam winced at the blood that soaked through the bandages and into the material. Several stitches must have pulled.

"Dean," Sam called again. "C'mon, I need your help, man."

At that Dean managed to force his eyes open. Sam watched him work to focus, work to be present.

"'s it?" Dean mumbled, pulling his dry lips in, and reaching up a clumsy hand to grip Sam's left arm.

"I found a truck, Dean," Sam started.

"Body?"

"Will's body?"

Dean blinked slowly and nodded. Sam felt a stab of worry slice through him at the weakness evident in that nod.

"It's over there. We'll worry about that later."

"Gotta burn it, Sam," Dean said, his fingers digging in harder on Sam's arm.

"I know, but we'll worry about that later," Sam said again, gently clasping the side of Dean's face, his thumb on Dean's cheek. "Listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Yeah."

"I found a truck, but there aren't any keys."

"Hot wire."

"Yeah, I know. I tried, but I need your help."

"Dad'd be so pissed at you," Dean muttered, his eyes sliding closed.

"No no no, Dean, hey," Sam tapped him lightly on the cheek until Dean's eyes opened again. "Don't close your eyes, okay? Keep them open. You keep them open."

"'K."

"I'm gonna get you up now, you ready?"

"Yeah."

Sam took a breath. This was not going to be fun. Sam tucked his hand under Dean's left shoulder; Dean gripped Sam's right arm above the cast. With a heave and a low cry of pain, Dean was on his feet. Sam leaned him back against the house so that he could maneuver his left arm across his shoulders. As they moved slowly from the house to the barn, Dean leaning heavily on Sam, the disappearing sun cast long shadows across the empty lot.

"Sam," Dean whispered.

"Almost there, man," Sam reassured, feeling the muscles melded next to his body tremble with fatigue and pain. "I think Will was trying to… control the craving or something. The barn is, well… let's just say Wes Craven would have a field day here."

"Nice," Dean tried to grin. "Way to p-pull in the pop c-culture reference."

They reached the barn and Sam noticed that although he still held as much of his weight as he could, Dean's eyes were closed. He led him to the passenger side of the truck, swung the door open and eased him inside. Dean's lips were pressed together, his breath coming in short bursts, his right arm held tight to his chest as he used the lap belts inside the truck to help pull himself in. He rolled his head on the back of the seat toward Sam, nodding weakly once he was in.

Sam shut the door, then hurried around to the driver's side and tucked himself in under the steering panel. _Gotta get him outta here… gotta get him outta here…_ The words rolled through his head like a chant, a mantra, a reason to ignore the various aches and pains that battling a werewolf had inflicted on his body. He tucked the flashlight under his chin, shining it on the wires beneath the steering column.

"Okay, Dean," Sam lifted his eyes. "Hey. HEY. Open your eyes."

Dean blinked, rolling his head slowly toward Sam.

"I'm here, man, now what."

"F-find the line that goes to the b-battery," Dean said, blinking slowly.

"How the hell—"

"Probably red."

"Oh."

"Then the one that's connected to the ignition."

"Blue?"

"Or white."

"I got both."

"Well, it's not gonna blow up, Sam," Dean opened one eye. "Try both."

Sam nodded. He had already tried twisting the white and blue wires together, so he stripped the red wire and then snapped the white and red wires together. Nothing. He twisted the white wire back together and grabbed the blue, snapping it against the red and breathing a silent sigh of relief when it sparked and he heard the engine catch. Ronnie Milsap's _Smokey Mountain Rain_ crackled through the ancient speakers.

Sam pulled his head up from under the dash and looked at Dean. His face was pale, shiny with sweat, his eyes closed and the lashes sticking together in triangles.

"Dean?"

He saw his brother's eyes roll under his closed lids as he forced his eyes open to look at the radio with a pained expression. "You tryin' to kill me?" Dean whispered.

"What do you want from me," Sam grumbled, reaching over and punching the buttons on the dash. "It's an AM radio for God's sake." He stopped when he heard Styx's _Too Much Time On My Hands_. "Happy?"

He looked over at his brother. Dean's face was pulled into a frown. Setting his jaw, Sam pulled himself into the cab and quickly shifted into reverse.

_"Well I'm so tired of losing- I got nothing to do and all day to do it. I go out cruisin' but I've no place to go and all night to get there…"_

"Dad woulda…" Dean swallowed, his rough, pain-saturated voice startling Sam. "Woulda been so pissed…"

"Hey, I paid attention… this is like the oldest freakin' truck in the world."

"D-didn't pay close enough—errg…" Dean gripped his wounded arm with his left. "Man, this sucks out loud," he said on an exhale.

"I saw a hospital on the way in to town," Sam said, throwing his arm across the seat and looking over his shoulder to back out of the barn. "Just hang in there."

Silence.

"Dean?"

Sam felt his heart hit the roof of his mouth when Dean simply slid bonelessly sideways in the seat.

"Aw, shit, Dean," Sam reached over and carefully gripped his brother until Dean's head was resting on his shoulder, Sam's hand hovering over the gear shift.

_"Too much time on my hands, it's ticking away with my sanity. I've got too much time on my hands, it's hard to believe such a calamity. I've got too much time on my hands and it's ticking away from me…"_

"Freakin' hard to change gears with this damn cast," Sam growled as he floored the accelerator, shifting up into fourth gear.

The heat from Dean's head seeped through Sam's T-shirt. Sam dropped his fingers from the gear shift to Dean's knee, feeling his brother's weak trembling through the denim. After a few minutes, they passed the Impala sitting alone and silent like a wounded warrior on the edge of a battlefield. The old truck's headlights glinted off of her hood, and Sam shot his eyes to the rearview mirror, wincing at the sight of her listing to the side on her ruined tires.

As the radio crackled through Buffalo Springfield's _Pay the __Price_, Sam's mind rewound the last several hours, ending the moment he grabbed the newspaper. If he hadn't pushed at Dean to take this hunt… if he hadn't wanted to do something, _anything_ that even resembled a hunt… just to keep Dad close, just to keep their lives real… would his brother be laying in this truck, burning up, shivering, bleeding to death?

_"And I see another man in your eyes. Listen you're old enough to know you can live twice…"_

"I don't know what to do, Dean," Sam whispered, downshifting to third to take a curve around one of the bending mountain roads. "I don't know if we should be hunting _more_ or what. I can't even decide if hunting that yellow-eyed demon will get us what we want… I mean, it took Mom… it took Jess… Dad… well, who knows, but I think… I think you might be right about Dad. I could never tell you that, but I think you might be right."

Dean moved slightly as they took another curve and Sam shifted back up into fourth.

"If you are right… if Dad… made some kind of a deal… I-I'm glad. I'm glad, Dean. Dad said he would look under every rock to save you… to bring you back. He said that he needed that Colt for you… I didn't understand at the time… but, Dad did. He knew… he knew I couldn't have handled it if I lost you."

"I can't lose you – do you get me?" Sam glanced over at the pale, sweaty profile. "Do you get me, Dean?"

Silence.

Sam pressed his lips together, his eyes searching the sides of the road for the blue hospital sign he'd seen on the way into town. He felt the burn of tears at the backs of his eyes.

"You keep trying to leave me, Dean."

Sam swallowed, glancing over at Dean, then back to the road. "You fight me… you close me out… you beat the hell out of your car… and then you tell me… _what's dead should stay dead_, but… you didn't die, man. You _didn't_. And whatever Dad did…"

Sam reached up with his left hand, balancing the wheel with his knee. He wiped at the tears that fell without permission, clearing the emotion from his face.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it alright for you, Dean," he whispered. "I'm sorry I didn't know what to say. But I'm here for you, okay? I'm not going to let you down, I swear. I swear to you, Dean. So you just hang on, okay? You just hang in there."

The hospital sign appeared like a beacon of light from the darkness beyond the headlights of the old truck. Sam grabbed the exit with two wheels, holding Dean in place with his elbow. He knew that the possibility of someone working at the hospital recognizing Randall's truck was high, but he also knew he couldn't carry Dean up to the ER doors. He pulled up, laying on the horn. In minutes a woman in a teal-green nurse's uniform came out and opened the passenger-side door of the truck.

Sam didn't have to say a word. She took one look at the blood covering Sam's shirt and Dean, unconscious, against his shoulder and turned back to the building, calling for help. Moments later, three men were wheeling out a stretcher, and pulling Dean from the cab of the truck. Sam felt his heart lurch as Dean remained unresponsive.

He parked the truck in a far spot, then walked slowly back to the ER entrance. Now that Dean was with someone who knew what to do, someone who could stitch him up, bring his fever down, someone that could do more than Sam's field-medicine training and casted hand could do, Sam found himself starting to shut down. He was tired, sore, and hurting. Stepping through the doors, he looked around blearily for the nurse's station. The same woman who'd come out to the truck stepped up to him.

"They took your friend to curtain five," she said, taking his arm and scrutinizing his head with a practiced eye. "You need to go to three."

"Three what?" Sam asked, confused. Her voice sounded muffled, and there were halos around the lights in the ER.

"Mark!" The woman yelled. A man with a pepper-gray beard and mustache appeared at her elbow. "Take him to three before he keels over right here."

"My brother—" Sam started.

"They'll let you know," the woman replied as Mark took Sam's arm, leading him away.

The next few hours were a blur. Sam applied all of his energy into staying awake, nodding at the right moments, doing what he was told while they cleaned him up. They'd encouraged him to lie back, to relax as they applied ice to his bruising, checked him over for broken bones or any missed cuts, but he knew Dean was two curtains down. He needed to see him. He hadn't heard his brother's voice yet and the longer that lasted, the more worried Sam became. He should have heard a sarcastic comment or a flirtatious remark by now…

"Hey, kid." Mark, the male nurse who had helped Sam to curtain three, surprised him by sweeping aside the pastel-colored curtains and stepping into the small cubicle where Sam sat, quiet and still, waiting. "You think you can answer some questions?"

"Depends on what they are," Sam replied tiredly.

Mark grinned, his beard folding and rippling with the motion. "Fair enough," he said, kicking a rolling stool over and swinging a leg across it. "Think you can tell me what attacked your brother?"

"Think it was a cougar or something."

"Helluva cougar," Mark lifted a brow. "A couple of those lacerations are about eight inches long, and some were an inch deep in places."

Sam winced. "Yeah, well, I didn't actually see him get… hit."

"Where were you?"

"Woods around Highway 193. Think we ran over something in the road… our, uh, tires blew."

"All of them?"

"Two of them," Sam said, meeting Mark's eyes squarely. "Scared the hell outta us. We're on our way to Gatlinburg."

"Where you boys from?"

"Uh, Kansas, sir," Sam replied.

"Just… what, road tripping?"

"Yep."

"So your tires blew…" Mark wrote a couple of things down on a clipboard.

"Nurses workin' for the police department now, that it?" Sam asked.

Mark grinned. "No. I'm just damn curious. Not everyday we get wounds like those where the patient is still alive."

"How is my brother?"

Mark glanced toward the curtain. "He'll be okay in a bit – who stitched him up?"

"I did."

"Did a decent job – few of them pulled, but they were clean stitches. Don't show signs of infection."

"He lost a lot of blood," Sam said.

"Yeah, well, you knowing his blood type helped us in that department."

"He had a fever."

Mark nodded. "Giving him antibiotics. Fever's down considerably from when you boys came in."

"When can I see him?"

"Now," Mark stood. "You don't have any broken bones or lacerations, and you aren't showing any signs of latent—"

"I'm fine," Sam said, standing next to the smaller man.

"Yeah, well, that's what I was getting at."

"Thanks," Sam stuck his hand out, shook Mark's, then moved to the curtain.

"Five is thataway," Mark tipped his chin to Sam's right.

Sam nodded his thanks, then moved down to the curtain. He took a breath, then pulled the curtain back, his eyes falling to Dean's recumbent form immediately. Dean's chest was bare except for the thick white bandages that wrapped around his upper torso and right shoulder. An IV was attached to the back of his left hand. His boots, jeans, and Sam's coat were stuffed into a bag under the bed. Sam noticed almost immediately that the gold amulet that Dean always wore was missing, but his silver ring was still on the hand draped across his chest.

"Dean?" Sam whispered.

Dean jerked slightly at the sound of his voice, opening his eyes slightly. Sam saw a flash of green before his eyes closed again, but then Dean tipped the corner of his mouth into a small grin.

"Hey," he rasped.

"Hey," Sam replied. "How you feeling?"

"Lucky," Dean said, licking his lips and shifting on the bed. "Time is it?"

"No idea," Sam said glancing around. "Still dark."

"New moon tonight," Dean said, opening his eyes. "World is safe for awhile."

Sam grinned. "'Cept for those bastards that don't care about the moon."

"Oh, right," Dean tipped his chin up. "Those."

"You look like crap, Dean," Sam ran his eyes over his brother's pale face, the purple shadows under his eyes, the hollows of his cheeks. "They said you're gonna be okay, though."

"I'm always okay, Sam," Dean tried to push himself higher in the bed, wincing slightly.

"Just stay still," Sam lifted a hand. "You're probably gonna be here awhile."

Dean shook his head. "No."

"Man, you can't just get attacked by a—"

"Boys," interrupted a deep voice as hands suddenly parted the curtain and halted Sam's protest.

Sam turned to see the white coat and stethoscope, then lifted his eyebrows as he had to raise his head slightly to look at the man's face. Dark brown, almost black eyes snapped with keen interest as the man looked from Sam to Dean.

"How you feeling? Drugs working okay?"

Dean nodded, silent, but Sam noticed his eyes were alert.

"Gotta say," the man continued, looking back over at Sam. "I'm impressed you boys tangled with that creature and are here to tell the tale."

Sam shot his eyes over to Dean. His brother's face remained impassive, but there was a subtle shift of his hand, a curling of his fingers that signaled to Sam that they had to be careful. Sam cleared his throat.

"We, uh, don't know exactly what—"

"Save it," the man, turned to Sam and he could see the name Dr. Landis stitched in blue on the left side of the white lab coat. "You think this is the first set of claw marks I've sewn up since I came to this town?"

"I wouldn't know," Sam replied, meeting the man's dark eyes squarely.

"You were out by the Randall place, weren't you?" Dr. Landis looked over at Dean.

Dean tilted his head back, regarding the man for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, we were."

"Find anything?"

"Some things."

"Everybody make it out?"

Dean shook his head.

"Was afraid of that," Dr. Landis sighed. "I knew Henry didn't just up and leave that old man."

"Henry wasn't there," Dean said. He flashed his eyes up to Sam briefly. "Not really."

"Huh." Landis ran a hand over his mouth. "So all this time… it was Will after all…"

Dean simply looked back at the doctor.

"I don't get it," Sam said. "If you knew, then why—"

Dr. Landis looked over at Sam, his eyes flashing a quick, unnaturally dark expression that sent a rolling chill down Sam's back. "There are some things that you don't discuss in the shadow of the sun," the man said. "Some things you deal with, survive, and move on."

Sam was silent. He looked back at Dean who was staring at the doctor.

Landis stepped up to Dean, wordlessly taking his blood pressure, pulse, and temperature then checking the stitches under his bandaging.

"You've got a while before you're gonna feel like wrestling any more werewolves," he said in a low, careful voice, "but you're gonna be okay. No danger of… altering your personality anytime soon."

Dean nodded, his eyes shadowed, uncertain. He didn't look at Sam. Landis wrote out a couple of prescriptions and handed them to Sam.

"Make sure he takes these—all of them," Landis looked at Dean. "Tylenol for that fever. It should go down in a day or so. If it doesn't, I suspect you know to get to a hospital."

"Yessir," Sam said softly, staring at his brother.

"I should make you stay here," Landis handed Sam an AMA form. "But I won't. I think maybe you've stayed in this town one night too long… there are those that tend to… discourage escape."

"Thanks," Dean said, lifting his right arm slowly, reaching out to shake the doctor's hand. Landis' eyes hit the silver of Dean's ring. Sam noticed then that Dean had used his wounded arm on purpose; the hard glint in his brother's eyes was reassuring.

Landis stepped back from Dean's hand, nodding. "You'll want to keep that on you, if you're thinking about visiting Asheville again anytime soon."

Dean dropped his hand. "Hey, Doc?"

"Yeah."

"You know a good tire store 'round here?"

"Fifth and Claremont," Landis replied. "Oh, and, listen," he looked over at Sam. "Stay away from the Randall place."

"We, uh… borrowed his truck," Sam said.

"Leave it. Anywhere."

"Doc, we can't just leave his body—" Dean started.

"Yes." Landis slid his eyes to Dean's, silencing him. "You can."

Dean swallowed, then nodded.

"Take it easy," Landis tipped them a two-fingered salute. "Sun'll be up soon."

He left with a flip of the pale blue curtain. A few moments later, a nurse appeared and removed Dean's IV, collecting the AMA form with a frown. Dean was still shivering as Sam helped him pull on his jeans and boots, tying the amulet back in its place, wrapping his jacket around his brother's shoulders and zipping up the front, then helping him walk out to the truck. Sam leaned over and twisted the wires together, starting up the engine with a plume of dark smoke ejecting from the tail pipe.

Dean leaned his head back against the seat.

"You okay?"

"Tired."

"Been a long day," Sam shifted into drive as the morning sun warmed the horizon.

Dean blinked his eyes in the light. "You can say that again."

The radio snarled with static, faint strains of the Beatles sifting through the speakers. Sam cast a sidelong glance at Dean, expecting him to protest, but his brother was silent, staring out the front window with shaded eyes as the lyrics trickled through the rumble that filled the cab of the old truck.

_"…some forever not for better, some have gone and some remain. All these places had their moments, with lovers and friends I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living. In my life I've loved them all…"_

Sam headed to the tire store, listened carefully as Dean instructed exactly what to get, and hoped they were in stock. He didn't want to stay in this town any longer than was absolutely necessary. He ignored the stares at his bloody T-shirt and his dirty, bruised, disheveled appearance and tossed the new tires into the bed of the truck.

When he climbed back into the cab, he noticed that Dean had listed to the side, his forehead against the passenger window. He was breathing easily, his shivering easing in his sleep. Sam drove to the nearest drug store, filled the prescriptions, then went through a fast food drive-thru.

"Gimme a coffee," Dean said, his eyes still closed.

"I'm getting you food," Sam said. He couldn't remember the last meal they'd eaten—he knew it was at least over a day ago. And Dean needed the energy to fight back the fever, to heal up.

"Fine, as long as you get me a coffee, too."

"Drugs starting to wear off?" Sam looked sideways at his brother, noticing the lines of pain that were framing his eyes.

"It's okay."

Dean was a lot like their father when he was in pain. He would only say something when he was too weak to stop it, but the pain showed up like a beacon in and around his eyes. Sam remembered many nights when John was tired, or drunk, and the pain that his father kept as close to him as a lover echoed through his brown eyes like a confession. John would never say a word, but Sam saw, and Dean saw.

"We'll be home soon," Sam said softly and without thinking. He felt Dean shift next to him and glanced over, seeing his brother's half-grin. He realized he'd been thinking of the Impala. "Shut up, you know what I meant."

"Yeah," Dean reached out to take the bag of food from Sam. He sat up higher in the seat when Sam handed him a cup of coffee. He didn't bother with removing the lid; he sucked the smooth, caffeinated beverage from the hole of the take-out cup and sighed deeply. "Nice."

Sam shifted into second, heading back out on the highway. He tapped at the speaker in his door, irritated at the staccato sound. If Dean didn't need the music, he'd turn the damned thing off. But he knew music was his brother's balm. _Even bad music is better than silence_, he thought as CCR hiccupped along through _Have You Ever Seen the Rain?_

_"Yesterday and days before, sun is cold and rain is hard, I know, been that way for all my time…"_

"He didn't even ask us why." Sam wasn't sure where the question came from, but it burst out of him as if on a quest for answers.

Dean looked over at him. "What?"

"Landis," Sam clarified. "He knew we'd been out at the Randall place. He knew what had hurt you. He had to know we killed it… _him_. He didn't even ask us why."

"Maybe he didn't care."

"Maybe he was protecting his own hide," Sam said. "He wouldn't touch your ring."

"Yeah, I know," Dean sighed. "But we can't kill 'em all."

"He sure wanted us gone, though," Sam shifted up into fourth as he pressed down on the accelerator. "I mean, you should be in a hospital."

"I hate hospitals."

"So."

"We weren't a threat to him, Sam. The guy's obviously dealt with hunters before…" Dean sighed. "We weren't anything to him."

There was a note of resignation in Dean's voice, and Sam looked over at him. The weight that Sam could see bowing his brother hadn't eased in the week following his heartsick confession at the side of the road. If anything, it had only increased. There was something that John had said… something that was eating through Dean. And when his brother had been at his weakest, Sam could've sworn he'd been about to say something…

"There she is," Dean smiled, and Sam was again amazed at the transformation he saw there. Dean's face lost years when he smiled like that.

Sam pulled over to the side of the road, then stepped around to help Dean out of the truck. Dean's legs trembled, unable to hold his weight. Sam eased him to the ground, leaning him back against one of the truck tires. Dean was looking at the Impala, shaking his head.

"If he wasn't dead already, I'd freakin' _kill_ that sonuvabitch for doing this to my baby," he muttered.

"You think Will did this?"

"Who else?" Dean looked at him, surprised.

"So… he got around us in the woods that night… slashed the tires, then wolfed out and circled back to attack?"

"I guess…" Dean sounded uncertain.

Sam frowned, thinking. He moved to the trunk of the car and pulled out a T-shirt and long-sleeved shirt for himself and Dean. Pulling off his dirty, bloody T-shirt and tossing it in the trunk, Sam turned to Dean.

"Landis made it sound like the town was… I don't know… infected with lycanthropy."

Dean tilted his head, watching as Sam pulled the clean T-shirt on and then shrugged into a long-sleeved shirt. "If you're saying what I think you're saying…"

Sam pushed his hair from his eyes, looking at the tires. "These aren't claw marks, Dean. Somebody cut them." He lifted his eyes to the woods. "Somebody wanted us to stick around… and they had to have known we'd be at the Randall place…"

Dean closed his eyes, rubbing at his forehead wearily. "Henry and his friend had been dead for awhile?"

"Oh yeah. They were… juicy." Sam shuddered, approaching Dean and helping him out of the blood-stained jacket. "You ready?"

Dean nodded, allowing Sam to help him ease the T-shirt over his wounded arm, hissing slightly as he slid into the red and black flannel shirt.

"Somebody else is out here, Dean."

"Well, I don't know about you," Dean used the side of the truck and slowly pushed himself to his feet. "But I'm not ready to be a statistic."

Sam nodded, grabbing the tire iron and jack from the trunk. Dean made a move to help and Sam stopped him with a look. Dean leaned back against the truck. By the time Sam had loosened the lug nuts on the rear tire, Dean had slid back down to sit on the ground against the truck tire once more.

Sam worked in silence, listening to his brother's breathing. He paused after he got the first tire on, tossing the ruined tire into the back of the truck. He grabbed the medicine Landis had prescribed and handed a dose to Dean, who nodded his thanks, dry-swallowed the pills, and closed his eyes wearily.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah," Sam grunted as he twisted off the second set of lug nuts.

"You ever think…"

Sam stopped and looked over his shoulder. "What?"

"You ever think… that being a statistic is better than being a ghost?"

"What are you talking about?" Sam turned on one knee, resting his hand on his other knee.

"We don't really exist," Dean said, his eyes still closed. "No one knows what happened to John Winchester. Elroy McGillicudy died in that hospital. No one knows what he did, what he meant. That name… that name doesn't mean anything to anyone outside of us and a handful of hunters."

Sam gripped the tire iron. "Dean—"

"Will was right," Dean lifted his head, looking blankly at the bumper of the Impala. "Nobody would miss us. I mean, Bobby, sure, he might wonder. But not for a while. We could disappear for any number of reasons and no one would know. No one would really even… think to care."

Sam shifted until he was kneeling, his back to the Impala, facing his brother. He searched frantically for something to say, something to stop this uncharacteristic hemorrhage of feeling, something to reassure Dean that he wasn't a ghost, that he mattered.

"We can be anyone we want, Sam," Dean slowly lifted his raw eyes to meet Sam's. "But… I just want to be Dean Winchester."

Sam nodded.

"And… I know it's stupid but," Dean shook his head, looking down. "Sometimes I want people to know what that means."

Sam swallowed. "I know what it means."

"What?" Dean lifted his head again.

Sam turned back to the tire, pulling off the ruined one. "I said I know what it means."

Dean was silent as Sam stood and threw the old tire into the back of the truck, picking up the new one. Pausing, he looked back at his brother. The look in Dean's eyes was the same half-devastated, half-empty stare that had gutted him back at Bobby's. _I miss him, man… and I feel guilty as hell… and I'm not alright, not even close… but neither are you, that much I know... _

Sam gripped the new tire, thought about his life, his time as a hunter, his time as Dean's younger brother, his time away from Dean, away from his father, and allowed honesty to punch through him.

"To me… Dean Winchester is the difference between life and death." He looked over his shoulder at Dean.

A look of indescribable pain—something deeper than just the physical that Sam could see—washed over Dean's face and Sam found himself stumbling forward slightly in the wake of that look. Dean pulled in his bottom lip, nodded, and then met Sam's eyes.

"I meant it, Sam," Dean said, swallowing. "I won't let anything bad happen to you."

Sam pulled his brows together. "I know."

Arms pulling him from a burning apartment… glass shattering as Bloody Mary made his eyes bleed… his neck released from a tightly-wrapped cord… Dean standing in front of him as a figure of fire approached… spirits blasted away by rock salt… a demon-possessed man stopped from beating him senseless… a zombie stopped with a slide and a spike… a hunter being beaten for cutting his arm… his name bellowed like a shield, like a warning…

"You've always been there," Sam said. _Even when I wasn't there for you, you never left me…_

Dean looked down, then shook his head slightly as if dismissing a thought. "You got that tire on yet, Francis?"

"Hey, you don't want to rush these things," Sam retorted, turning back to the tire.

They pulled their heads up in unison at a rustle deeper in the woods. Dean looked back at his brother.

"We do now."

Sam nodded. He wasn't worried that they were leaving a potential hunt. Not now. His father had taught them a lot about hunting—and one lesson had been to pick their battles. A town full of lycanthropes with a wounded brother was _not_ a battle Sam was willing to fight. Besides… they could always come back.

"Five minutes," Sam said. He shoved the tire on and wrenched the lug nuts back in place.

"Sam," Dean's strained voice met his ears.

"Just another min—"

The cracking branches silenced him.

"And, we're done," he straightened up, tossed the tire iron and jack into the trunk and turned to Dean.

His brother had managed to push himself to his feet using the old truck as a brace. He was staring into the woods, his legs planted, his shoulders squared. _He looks like he's preparing for a fight…_

"Dean, let's go," Sam took his arm gently, tugging him toward the passenger door of the car. "We'll leave the truck here." _I've gotta get you outta here… _Before Dean stopped being able to see the line. Before he stopped being able to call the battles. Before he was fighting anything, everything, in an attempt to keep Sam safe.

"Who do you think it is, Sam?"

"I honestly don't give a rat's ass," Sam grumbled, looking into the woods. "I'm getting you out of here."

He opened the Impala's passenger door and Dean eased down inside, holding his right arm gingerly as Sam shut the door. He looked off into the woods as Sam climbed inside, starting the engine. Music blared from Dean's rebuilt speakers, causing Sam to flinch and Dean to sigh with pleasure.

_"I feel a change back to a better day… hair stands on the back of my neck… in wildness is the preservation of the world…"_

Sam shook his head, reaching for the volume control on the radio. As the Impala pulled away from the side of the road, they caught a glimpse of bleached blonde hair and a red shirt. Dean glanced at Sam, disbelief registering on his face.

"Dude… wasn't that… from the… diner?"

Sam's lips twitched in an incredulous grin and he shook his head slowly as he sat back and gripped the wheel.

"You're the one that wanted to stop for coffee."

www

Cookies to anyone who can identify the last song and artist.

At the close of this journey, we want to thank you for reading, for reviewing (even when ff[dotnet wasn't all that cooperative) and for sticking with us. These boys, these characters, this show has captivated so many and we hope that our vision of this adventure has entertained you.

Grin

GS and Freyja.


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